


Safe & Sound

by Miss_Peletier



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, District 12, F/M, Part 2 will be Marcus and Abby at their canon ages, Peacekeeper!Marcus and Healer!Abby, and Part 1 is them as teenagers, please note that this is a two-part fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 131,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Peletier/pseuds/Miss_Peletier
Summary: Against the advice of everyone in District 12, 18-year-old Marcus Kane applies to undergo Peacekeeper training in the Capitol rather than relegating himself to a life in the coal mines. His motives are selfless and selfish, his dangerous decision bringing him and Abby Walters closer and tearing them apart over the course of thirty years.One thing is certain: the odds are never in his favor.





	1. Don't Look Back

**Author's Note:**

> *cue excited screaming* YOU GUYS, I'M REALLY POSTING IT! Finally. The thing I've been working on since last summer. My blood, sweat, and tears have been poured into this work. So, with that said...I hope you all enjoy it!

Marcus couldn’t dispel the rising panic expanding inside his chest, the roaring of his pulse that drowned out the instructor’s orders. He continued glancing around the room at the nameless new recruits as his fingers tightened around worn leather binding, clutching the cracked surface of the book as if it were his only lifeline. These boys were burly, strong, at least twice his size: needless to say, he was likely the only one from District 12. A designation for which he would not be envied.

“From this moment forward, this book will be your closest friend and your greatest enemy,” the instructor said, her voice metallic and soulless. “Your copy of the Laws of Panem will ultimately determine whether or not you become a Peacekeeper. All you need to know, and all you will be tested on, is inside. It is recommended that you spend at least seven hours each day reviewing the text, and the rest of the day’s activities will be communicated to you through the intercom systems…”

Being from Twelve in a crowd full of Career Peacekeeper trainees could be a death sentence. These were the boys who trained in special academies for the games and never got picked, these were the boys who came from legacy families of Victors, these were the boys who fought with their fists instead of their words.

 _Don’t you know how dangerous the training is?_ Abby’s voice echoed in his head, bouncing and colliding with the instructions for new recruits and shoving them out of his focus. They were supposed to line up in the center of the corridor, but his arms and legs felt too heavy to move. _Why do you think no one from 12 signs up?_

A few boys shoved him in their quest to be at the front of the line. No apologies were offered, and Marcus felt an ‘I’m sorry’ whither and die on his lips. He barely fit between two boys who didn’t notice his presence, and didn’t apologize when they nearly shoved him out of the line.

 _There are other ways you could help your mom,_  she'd insisted. But Abby never asked him to stay. She never said those magic words, those simple three syllables that could have convinced him to plant himself in the dirt and grime of District 12 and grow roots there. Those words were reserved for another, a boy with golden hair and eyes as blue as the ocean. Perhaps someday he’d be able to make peace with that, but for now the revelation was a tidal wave of anguish crashing inside his chest.

_I…Marcus, I think I’m in love with him. How stupid of me to realize that now, don’t you think? Now that I’ll never see him again…_

He was repulsed – not by what existed between Abby Walters and Jake Griffin, but with himself for taking so long to realize the nature of her feelings for him. How, he wondered, could he have been so oblivious? He should have seen it in her eyes, the way her entire body went rigid when his name was called during the Reaping. He should have seen it hiding in the warmth in her voice when she talked about him, when she observed the extent of his bravery and in her inconsolable distress when he was in danger. He’d been worried, too, and noticed that valor, but such observations were different for her.

Marcus looked at Jake and saw a friend, a man he’d grown up with and who took him into his home when his own father was too dangerous to be around. That was a gratitude Marcus would always feel, a debt he could work for his entire life and never be able to repay. But Abby…Abby looked at Jake and she saw the man Marcus Kane always wished he could be. Strong, funny, brave. And a victor, now. A man worthy of her in every way.

But Abby was gone, her voice a relic of a version of himself he’d thrown out the train windows, left behind in the dust of District 12. Her image was a photograph of a time long past, moments that ceased to exist the second the final canon sounded in the arena. Nothing would have been the same again, not after Jake won. Eventually, that photograph would fade. Time always faded old pictures.

A woman in a blindingly white lab coat began making her way down the line, entering information into a flat device unlike anything Marcus had ever seen and giving each of them an injection. His hands shook even harder: why hadn’t he prepared himself for the possibility that they’d be given shots? He fought to keep his breathing even, forcing the memories of pre-Reaping injections and his mother’s comforting voice away.

Only when the woman moved closer did he realize what she was doing: she was asking them for their names and districts. _Shit._ She made her way down the line of boys, and while Marcus couldn’t quite register their outlandish names, their districts stuck. The dark-skinned boy with the tattoos on his face was from Two. The tall boy who hadn’t stopped talking throughout the instructional period was from one. _He’s probably been told all this before,_ Marcus thought bitterly. The red-haired boy standing next to him was from Three. And on and on until…

“Name?” she demanded, staring at him coldly from behind thick-rimmed glasses.

“Marcus Kane,” he said as firmly as he could, desperately hoping the tremors in his words were a figment of his imagination.

“District?” she asked, and his breath caught. His lungs burned. To admit he was from Twelve would be atrocious, horrific. Abby had been right – he might be targeted, sought out for elimination by both the trainees and the instructors. By the appearance of the place, the white walls and the polished stone floors, there would be no love for a boy from the Seam here. Would the officials check their responses for validity? Probably not, he decided. Most of his competitors were from wealthy parts of Panem, anyway – why did it matter if they were public about where they were from? – their home districts were a status symbol, so there’d be little purpose in lying about it.

He could say he was from any of those vast, unreachable places he’d studied on their worn little maps of Panem, make believe that he hadn’t gone to sleep every night under a threadbare blanket and awoken each morning with goosebumps prickling over his skin. But, for as much pain as it was pumped through his veins, 12 was his home. It was where he was from. It was where he’d bonded with his two closest friends, it was where his mother still lived and would probably live for the rest of her life, it was where he tended to the sapling in his parents’ backyard and, for better or worse, it was where _she_ was from.

“District?” the woman repeated, exasperated, her hands stilling over the device’s screen.

“Twelve,” he said, tongue a lead weight in his mouth, hands slipping and sliding against the legs of his worn linen pants. The number squeaked out from between his lips in a faint exhale, the last words of a condemned man. There was no fire behind them, no defiant roar. There was no pride hidden in his tone, not the way the other boys had announced their home districts. For Marcus, trembling underneath the intrusively bright lights of the Capitol’s Peacekeeper training facility, it was only a fact: a fact as engrained in his memory as his mother’s smile and the scent of pine trees.

But that didn’t mean he took pride in it.

“Speak up,” the woman ordered him over the din of the other recruits’ chatter.

“District Twelve,” he repeated, staring into the woman’s eyes as he stated the fateful number. Her irises were brown but her pupils were gold, proof that the rumors he’d heard of people _voluntarily_ genetically altering themselves in the Capitol had some truth to them. He suppressed a shudder. The thought of undergoing any medical procedure _just because he wanted to_ …it was enough to make him squirm despite his mounting sense of terror. _Who does that?_

Those brown-gold eyes widened a fraction, but her silence indicated no further explanation was necessary. Her fingers clicked against the device, recording the truth he’d decided to let slip into the open air, and he heard the boys next to him snicker.

“He’ll be the first to go,” Marcus heard someone whisper. “The ones from Twelve always are.”

Several laughs erupted, scattered across the room like leaves in the wind. And for the first time since getting on the train that would separate him from the forests of District 12 for the first time in his life, he felt like throwing up what little amount of rich food from the train still remained in his churning stomach. Regret washed over him, sharp, sudden, and ruthless, and he felt himself starting to drown in its current. _I should never have done this._

But then he remembered the impenetrable blackness in the mines, the coal dust that seemed to coat every surface with a thin black film and that stirred and danced in the muted sunlight with every breath he took. He heard the wheezing rattles of his father’s breathing, lungs ruined, body a failed, twisted product of years spent underground. That wasn’t a future Marcus Kane wanted for himself, if he let himself be selfish enough to choose his own destiny.

He saw Abby’s face, the look in her eyes when Jake stepped off the train – it was as if she’d finally seen sunlight after a month of living underground. The way her brown eyes glimmered with joy despite the oppressive summer heat, the dazzling beauty of her smile. She was different to him then than she had ever been before, standing there under the lights the Capitol installed in their town square to welcome back their closest friend and the subject of a jealousy powerful enough to shove them apart.

Marcus Kane didn’t want to push anyone apart. So Marcus Kane left.

He'd had the sudden feeling his group of friends had shrunk from three to two as he watched Abby and Jake embrace, didn’t turn away as the woman he never knew he loved ran her fingers through another man’s hair. Suddenly he was just a boy from the Seam again, afraid to talk to the wealthy children on the first day of class, feeling degrees removed from the smiling faces and new clothes that adorned many of the other six-year-olds.

He suddenly wondered if he’d ever stopped being that little boy from the Seam, or if he’d just been able to successfully mask him for a little while. His heritage was his heritage, no matter who he was friends with, and Jake’s triumphant return slapped him in the face with a truth he’d long forgotten – he _was_ a poor boy from the Seam. The face that stared back at him in the mirror was always going to be that of a poor boy from the Seam.

Abigail Walters and Jacob Griffin were the son of a baker and the daughter of a healer, two professions highly respected in a district that needed food and medicine above anything and everything else. They were destined for bright futures before Jake’s games, and now that he was a victor and she was all but his girlfriend, the next chapter in their story would be happier and brighter than ever. The mines were all that loomed in the next chapter of his story, unless he rewrote it. And he had to rewrite it, for more than his own selfish reasons.

Marcus knew that in the wake of his father’s death, his mother would need more than just emotional support – she’d need monetary compensation. Abby and Jake had offered to help (of _course_ they offered to help, that was just what Abby and Jake _did_ ) but Vera was too proud to accept their aid. She was determined to get by on her own, but Marcus knew better. Twelve was a harsh, unforgiving place, and a woman without a husband or child and no hunting skills would starve.

Marcus Kane would not let his mother starve, no matter how she protested his plan.

Marcus Kane saw no future for himself in the dusty ruins of District 12.

Marcus Kane couldn’t stand near Abby Walters and Jake Griffin without feeling his heart attempt to crawl up and out of his throat in an attempt to desert his guilty, tormented, regret-laden body.

He couldn’t live the rest of his life that way, putting on the mask of a friend in their presence and removing it in private to feel his own anguish. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life breathing through coal dust and a miner’s mask. So, considering his options, he made a decision.

Stiffening his spine and puffing out his chest, he reined in his anxious thoughts. He tuned out the murmurs and faint laughs from the other recruits until they were nothing more than a muted buzz, a jumbled din. His expression didn’t change when the needle slipped beneath his skin – he wouldn’t wince, he wouldn’t show weakness – and when the tracker was injected, he didn’t clench his teeth. Because he’d made a choice.

And once he’d signed the papers, approved as a recruit because of his academic success rather than physical skill, there was no looking back. When his mother begged him not to go, pleaded with him to stay in Twelve instead of accepting the offer printed on that expensive piece of parchment, he didn’t break. This was a permanent move.

And Marcus Kane, being Marcus Kane, would not look back _._


	2. The Boy from the Seam

Another rumor about the Capitol that held weight, Marcus found: the accommodations were supremely, almost incomprehensibly, lavish. Even for Peacekeeper recruits.

Marcus’ old home hadn’t had much in the way of luxury – such comforts were foreign to families in Panem’s 12th district. But even Abby and Jake didn’t live _this_ luxuriously. Their homes were larger than his with running water and food he wouldn’t have to trade his favorite books to obtain, with soft carpeting instead of rotting wooden floors. When he’d first set foot inside them, he thought he’d finally found the Heaven his mother spoke so fervently about.

But even they paled in comparison to the room in which he found himself assigned for the duration of his training. The bed in the center of the space was twice the size of the one he had at home, and the shiny plastic desk that sat in the far corner was a far cry from the scuffed kitchen table where he used to study. There were various outfits folded on top of the comforter: two he assumed were for training, one for relaxing in the evening, and one pair of pajamas.

He moved about the space, taking it all in with shock and awe, still surprised he’d been given his own accommodations. Given the number of trainees. He had prepared himself to be sharing space with two or three other boys. But his room, nestled in the quiet seclusion of the end of the corridor, was just that – _his room_ , coded to open by the touch of his hand to a keypad over the door handle. Even with the furniture subtracted, he would have been happy enough with that.

With nothing to do and no incentive to explore the facility, Marcus decided he had three options – start reading the textbook, watch the Capitol programs broadcasted through the television in his room, or sleep. He attempted to begin his studies, setting his book down gently on the marble desk that rested next to the carefully-made bed in the corner of the room. But when he peeled back the cover and smelled the starchy scent of aged paper, when he started to take in the various procedures for trainees, the text blurred before he could make sense of it. _Oh, no._

Traveling had gotten the best of him for the day. It was probably to be expected, he thought, given that he’d never set foot outside his District in his life _and_ revealed himself as being from Twelve on the first day of training. All things considered, it had been the most eventful twenty-four hours of his life. That said, as he changed into the satin pajamas that had been laid out for him, climbed into the softest bed he’d ever felt, and slipped beneath the feather-light sheets, he knew sleep wasn’t likely to comfort him soon. His heart raced in the deepening darkness, thrumming harder and faster with each second marked by the digital clock above his doorway. The closer he tried to beckon unconsciousness, the farther it strayed.

He heard the sounds of other boys yelling in the rooms above him and gave thanks for his decision to stay inside. Whatever chaos was ensuing amongst the egos above, Marcus Kane wanted no part of it. How was a boy from the Seam to make friends with Careers, anyway?

So he was left with the third option, at least until sleep claimed him as its own.

The controller for the channels was as easy to find as it was difficult to use. In theory, it should have made sense. Abby had one, Jake had one, and he had seen them both use it before. But when his fingers closed around the strip of cool metal, he realized he’d forgotten its operation completely. And he was too exhausted to bother with reading the manual. So he resorted to pressing buttons at random, hoping for the best. His first few tries brought no measurable level of success, but eventually progress was made. The broadcast burst to life in a flash of sound and color, playing a fraction of Panem’s anthem and displaying the logo.

“I never get sick of watching this moment,” the program’s announcer said as a bar displaying his name scrolled across the bottom of the screen. _Ceasar Flickerman._

When Marcus imagined what people in the Capitol looked like, Ceasar was exactly what drifted to mind: the young man wore a silver suit with rhinestones on the collar, a silver wig, and silver nail polish to match. The rumors about their excessive wealth were true, too, Marcus decided.

But at Ceasar’s statement, Marcus felt the room start spinning around him. How many times would he have to watch Jake Griffin take a life to earn that all-important title? “The moment a tribute becomes a victor.”

“And our first-ever victor from Twelve, too!” the other man exclaimed, raising his curled eyebrows in awestruck appreciation. “During a Quarter Quell, no less. That’s quite an accomplishment, isn’t it?”

“Well, we all know how beloved our Jake Griffin is here in the Capitol,” Ceasar said with a knowing smile, and the broadcast cut to a mob of cheering Capitol citizens sobbing with joy when he was announced the winner.

Judging by the quantity of girls who collapsed to the ground on what Marcus guessed were some of the city’s main streets, he had no shortage of admirers. _No surprise there,_ he thought, remembering how girls had practically thrown themselves at him at nearly every opportunity. They’d waited to talk to him after classes, asked him if he could teach them how to bake bread (that he now knew might have been a double entendre, but Marcus had been too naïve at the time to understand it), asked _him_ to ask Jake if he had feelings for them…it was all over the top and overwhelming, and Marcus knew how uncomfortable Jake had been with their advances. He’d given several of them some of his time, probably more out of pity than interest, but none of them stuck around.

Abby had never been one of those girls, and perhaps it was that that made her so attractive to him. Although there were plenty of things that made her likeable – her endless optimism, her willingness to help anyone in need, her steely determination and deep devotion to those she cared about – maybe, Marcus thought, in the end it was her indifference that made her desirable. Except, as he had learned, she wasn’t indifferent to Jake at all. She just hid her feelings better than most, and had the upper hand over all his other throngs of admirers. Because Jake had feelings for her, too.

Marcus sighed, pulling himself from his reverie. The broadcast wasn’t doing him any favors, it _certainly_ wasn’t letting him turn his brain off for the night, but he’d given up hope on that front long ago. Now it was just he and the television, burning through the hours of Capitol-brightened darkness together.

The announcers were laughing at a joke he hadn’t managed to catch, and he found himself jumping into a conversation for which he had no context. Fortunately, it was easy enough to figure out. Unfortunately, he didn’t enjoy where it was headed.

“Okay, Ceasar. _Ceasar_. Here’s what _I_ – and quite a few ladies, I might add - want to know.”

“What’s that?” the man with the blue hair asked, leaning forward to show his intrigue.

“I want to know who the girl in the sketchbook is,” the announcer stated, a grin crawling over his features and displaying each one of his pointed teeth.

Marcus’ stomach sank.

He’d never seen this broadcast before, and now he was thinking that had probably been for the best. He didn’t need to see this. Not until he’d strengthened the wall between he and his feelings for Abby, trapped them inside a fortress in his heart from which they could never escape. Dwelling on her would do him no good, especially now. And if he’d ever known Jake Griffin at all, there could only be one ‘girl in the sketchbook.’ But even as his heartbeat escalated to a war drum and a familiar roaring sounded in his ears, he couldn’t bring himself to reach out, grab the remote, and power the hologram down.

“Ah, yes!” Ceasar said with a laugh, his rhinestoned suit glinting under the sparkling lights of the Capitol’s newsroom. “The mysterious ‘girl in the sketchbook.’ Didn’t he draw her in the arena? I could have sworn some of his sponsors sent him art supplies…we all know how much he loves to draw. Am I correct?”

Apparently there was a studio audience, because Marcus heard several shouts and cheers. Did the people in the Capitol ever sleep? Would _he_ sleep tonight? Did it matter?

“He did!” the other broadcaster said. “Have we released that footage yet, Ceasar?”

More cheers, some hysterical sobs. The camera didn’t have to pan out to the audience for Marcus to be able to picture it perfectly – women in multicolored wigs with layers of makeup and outlandish outfits, salivating at the chance to catch a glimpse of their beloved victor. He’d seen it all before, year after year after year. The Capitol developed frenzied, soul-consuming obsessions with their victors, sinking their claws into them the second the final canon sounded.

Usually the tradition didn’t bother him. After all, the victors were usually tributes from Career districts who desired the attention. They thrived on the around-the-clock media coverage, ate it up, saw nothing as an invasion of privacy. But it was a different experience when the man in question was your best friend and the girl in question was…

“I…I don’t believe we have,” Ceasar said, and the room erupted into chaos. “Do you think we should show it to them?”

 _No,_ Marcus pleaded silently with the man on the hologram screen, begging without words for him to end this torment. _Don’t show it. Please, don’t show it._

“I think we should!”

Deafening applause. More cheers. More screams.

“Now, before we roll the footage, keep in mind this wasn’t broadcasted for a reason,” Ceasar said. “There might be quite a few broken hearts out there…”

“Just let us see it!” one voice screamed, and both announcers chuckled as other visitors followed suit.

“Your wish is our command,” Ceasar grinned, and he gestured to the screen behind him with a flourish. For a moment, the broadcast froze on the man’s youthful face. And then, for a split second, darkness.

Then the blackness shifted, and he saw Jake’s bruised, bloody form stumbling through the forest in the dimming light. He remembered those bruises, remembered where the blood came from. It wasn’t his – he’d run into a pack of Career tributes and had to fight his way out, taking more than one of them down in the process.

Abby had looked away from the carnage, unable to stop a few tears from slipping down her cheeks as her sweaty hand trembled in his. Jake had been close to death for the first time that day, close enough to feel its icy breath on the back of his neck. It wasn’t the last time he’d push the hands of death away during his three-week battle. But Jake Griffin didn’t give up easily, and he was determined to win. Marcus knew he didn’t want to kill: he’d avoid taking other tributes’ lives as long as they weren’t threatening his own.

But he didn’t want to lose, either.

Jake continued his march through the trees, looked around wildly as the leaves around him rustled. He’d almost made it back to the small cave he’d turned into something of a home within the chaos, an oasis that was safe from the other tributes. No one knew he was there – he’d camouflaged the rock well and blocked the entrance. Being an artist had its advantages in the arena. And he had another advantage, too.

None of the Career tributes were bothering with the boy from District 12.

Of course, that didn’t mean he didn’t fear the worst when the branches snapped above his head. This was where the broadcast had cut out, Marcus recalled. He remembered the rage that seared him inside when the footage switched to the alliance between the competitors from the lower-numbered districts. Who did the Capitol think they were, keeping his best friend’s fate as a cliffhanger? Didn’t they realize how their tactics played hell with the people in the districts, with friends and families thousands of miles away?

Abby had buried her face in his shirt, and he held her as she cried. She hadn’t revealed her feelings yet, not then, and he wondered if she could feel the deafening pounding of his heart whenever she was close. Guilt gnawed at the base of his stomach – he shouldn’t be realizing this, not now, not when their friend was in mortal danger – but holding her felt natural, right, and a horribly self-serving part of him didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t want her to cry. He didn’t want to see her in pain, because her pain was his pain, too. Anything he could do to help her, to alleviate her suffering, he would do. Always. She was so strong, so smart, so unwavering in the face of despair and torment, and he wanted her to know he’d be there as long as she wanted him to be. He’d comfort her as long as she felt pain. Whenever the world knocked Abigail Walters down, Marcus Kane would be there to help her get back on her feet.

The electricity that coursed through his veins when she looked his way, when she said his name…he had played it off as friendship, as elation that he had someone who he could spend time with and pretend, just for a few hours at a time, that he had a future in 12 that didn’t involve starvation and desolation. But that didn’t quite offer a sufficient explanation for the nervousness that overtook him when she glanced his way, for the jealousy that coiled in his chest when he glimpsed another boy attempting to flirt with her. For how he found himself more and more often stealing cursory glances at her, reveling in her brown eyes and sun-lightened hair for no other reason than _he wanted to_ , noticed his gaze moving toward her lips and wishing…if only for a second…

Some part of him understood what it meant, how this jumble of foreign feelings fit together and formed a completed puzzle that started with the letter ‘L’. But what to do with such a puzzle? While their friend was in the arena, nothing.

Her confession came days later than the footage on the broadcast, when Jake was mortally wounded by a spear meant for a 12-year-old girl. They’d both been certain they’d hear the canon sound for their friend when the Capitol showed him again.

The pain they felt was identical, but they dealt with the reality radically differently.

Marcus felt empty inside, hollow, cold, as if his insides had been scooped out and replaced with ice. The reality that Jake could die in the arena hadn’t escaped him: every day when the Capitol aired their mandatory footage, a little voice in the back of his head resumed its nagging reminder that this could be the day he said goodbye to him forever. But there had been an optimistic voice, too, one replete with his mother’s trademark faith and belief, that told him to have hope.

Jake was smart, and the arena was a forest. They’d spent hours outside the fences when they were young, and Jake knew how to climb trees and track animals. He wasn’t much of a hunter – he had no need to provide food for his family, after all – but the forest was no stranger to him. Out of all the tributes for 12 that had entered the games over the years, Marcus couldn’t help thinking perhaps Jake had the best chance of survival. They’d done those things for fun back then, but they could help give him a competitive edge now.

But it would be just like Jake, he thought, to give his life to keep that little girl’s heart beating. His compassion would be his undoing – an almost poetic ending for a boy who cared too deeply for others to place his life above theirs. Even in such a dire situation.

It would have been foolish if it weren’t so admirable, he thought.

Abby didn’t reach for Marcus then, didn’t bury her face in his shirt and wet it with the warmth of her tears. Instead she jumped up from the worn couch in her family’s dimly-lit home, making her way toward the door. Her parents, confused and concerned, asked her where she was going. It was late, dark, and dangerous, too far past nightfall for a sixteen-year-old girl to be out on the streets of District 12 by herself.

She didn’t answer, instead choosing to give Marcus a final glance and slam the door behind her. He didn’t waste a second before he rose from his seat to pursue her through the midnight air, opening and closing the door more carefully than she had and stepping out into the frigid darkness.

He hoped she wasn’t going where he thought she was going.

Being in the forest at night wasn’t a good idea, and she had to know that. Abby was many things – impulsive, headstrong, bold – but she wasn’t stupid. If they ran into a mountain lion at this hour, without any means of self defense…he shuddered at the thought.

She _was_ going where he hoped she wasn’t going, he noted with chagrin as she slid between the barrier dividing District 12 from the surrounding woods. _Dammit, Abby. Why are you doing this?_ He ducked under the fence, wincing as his head caught on the wire. It was a damn good thing, he thought, that the Capitol didn’t bother powering the fences.

Abby kept going, farther and farther into the woods, until he could barely make out her slim form in the forest-filtered moonlight. She was running, branches cracking beneath her feet as her tread kicked up years’ worth of fallen leaves and dust. She was smaller than him but faster, more agile, and his lungs burned as he attempted to catch up to her.

_I can’t lose you, Abby. I can’t._

What would her parents say, if he lost her now? If he couldn’t bring her back? If something happened to her out here, and he was powerless to stop it? How could he live with himself?

_I can’t lose you._

“Go home, Marcus,” she snapped, slowing to a walk. He ignored her order, jogging to reach her until they were facing each other. Their faces were only inches apart, separated only by the night air that brought redness to both of their cheeks. Her voice was thick, unsteady, and he heard her sniffling as he approached.

Needless to say, he wasn’t going home.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said, reaching a hand out to touch her shoulder. “Jake’s okay. They wouldn’t have left it like that if he wasn’t. We would have heard the cannon.”

How he hoped that wasn’t a lie.

Part of him expected her to shrug him off, given her last statement. But she allowed him to touch her, resting one of her hands on top of his. Warmth radiated through him, and a redness crept to his cheeks that wasn’t a result of the weather. He gave thanks for the darkness as she stepped closer.

“I just…hate seeing him like this. The things he’s had to do. I can’t stand watching him suffer, and there’s nothing I can do to help.”

Marcus nodded, hating himself for the way his heart leapt at her touch when his friend was fighting for his life.

“I hate it, too,” he said, unsure what else he could say. Of course he hated watching the games every night – he’d hated that ever since he was young. His mother couldn’t bring herself to train her eyes on the screen, choosing instead to busy herself with tending to the little tree she kept inside their home on a coal-dusted windowsill. She watered the tree, and he kept watching. It was the law, after all. It was mandatory viewing. 

“I don’t know why they do it,” Abby said suddenly, with a bitterness he’d never heard from her before.

“Do what?” he asked, confused.

“Hold the games,” she responded, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. “They’re pointless. Why cause all this suffering?”

 _Because it’s the law,_ Marcus thought, but he’d never say it out loud. He gave thanks that Abby was smart enough not to express those opinions during daylight hours – speaking out against the Capitol was forbidden, and she could be whipped. Age didn’t matter, as far as the law was concerned. The law was the law and tradition was tradition, and it would continue on no matter how fiercely Abby Walters despised it.

“I don’t know, either,” he said, keeping his thoughts to himself. He wished he could think of something better to say, something that would mend the scar that watching Jake in the arena had given her. But the gears inside his brain caught every time she looked at him, and they had stopped turning the second she stepped outside her parents’ door.

So gently, she folded herself into his arms and held her close, letting her throw all her torment and anger into vengeful sobs that wracked her whole body. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared an embrace; she hugged him after her mom nursed him back to health during a particularly illness-laden winter, she hugged him when he let her borrow his copy of The Three Musketeers, she hugged him when she found out she’d been accepted to undergo advanced medical training in District 5.

Abby wasn’t shy about physical contact when she was excited…or, as he had come to learn, when someone needed comfort. Their shared embrace had benefits for both parties involved: Jake’s situation was weighing on Marcus, too, filtering all of his thoughts through a haze of sadness. But his emotions were a muddled mess of conflicting signals, and he felt guilty for the thing stirring inside him whenever Abby was close.

For the thing that stirred inside him now.

Eventually her sobs subsided, and she stepped away from him again. The moonlight lit her features with a soft glow, traced fragments of silver into her chestnut hair. Even when she cried, she was beautiful. She was so heartbreakingly, agonizingly beautiful, and his breath caught in his throat.

“Marcus, there’s something I have to tell you,” she said, her voice taking on a new solemnity as a wan smile crawled across her lips. “I can’t hold this in anymore, and you’re the only one I wanted to tell. You’re the only person I _can_ tell.”

His pulse soared. Abby didn’t keep secrets, as far as he knew. Between he and Jake, they knew almost everything there was to know about her. Was it foolish to hope?

She’d brought him out into the woods at midnight…if it was about Jake, couldn’t they have just kept talking inside her house? Why bother with the theatrics, with pulling him into her arms? The thing inside him roared, and he fought to keep his breathing even.

“It’s okay, Abby. You can tell me anything.”

She took a deep breath, glanced around at the woods as if she were afraid someone else might be watching them.

“I…” she stopped, shook her head slightly, as if she were rummaging around in her head for the right words and couldn’t find them. A few seconds passed before her second attempt, and Marcus felt as though his heart might burst inside his chest.

“Marcus, I think I’m in love with him. Jake. No, I _know_ it." She paused for a self-deprecating laugh, a sniffle, catching a tear before it trailed down her red cheek. "And how stupid of me to realize that now, don’t you think? Now that I’ll never see him again…”

_Oh._

The thing inside him curled up into a ball and whimpered, cried, screamed, clawed away at the inside of his chest.

_Oh, that makes sense._

“Abby, I…” he started on a sentence he had no idea how to finish, swallowing hard over a traitorous lump in his throat. He was almost thankful she cut him off.

“I never told him how I felt. I went to see him before he left, I told him goodbye, but I never _said_ it. I didn’t want him to know, because either way, it would have been a burden.”

_Tell her. You have to tell her._

There was little doubt in Marcus’ head that Jake had feelings for Abby. Who wouldn’t? She was the object of admiration of most of the boys in District 12, thought she paid it little mind. Her studies always mattered more to her than her social life, and although she could have had a wide group of friends she reserved those positions to be held only by the two boys she’d known for most of her life.

But the last thing Jake had said to him when he’d gone to the town hall to tell him goodbye, the last words Marcus heard from his friend’s mouth, had been a request he hadn’t understood at the time. Not until now, with Abby Walters standing in front of him, did he realize what they’d meant.

 _“Take care of her, Marcus. Please.”_ And there had been a desperation to the way he said it, an urgency that overtook his eyes and filled them with tears. Marcus had promised, of course. He knew who ‘she’ was. But why had he chosen those as his final words before the guards ushered him from the room? Why not something more optimistic or defiant, more fitting of the Jake Griffin he’d known for twelve years?

He had a family who loved him, but his last words had been intended to secure Abby Walters’ happiness. Why?

_Because he loves her, too._

Would it be cruel to tell her now? Now that Jake’s fate rested on the healing powers a little girl might or might not be able to provide, would such words only deepen an already festering wound? Or did she have a right to know, now that Jake couldn’t tell her? If he survived, Marcus knew he’d want to do it himself. But standing here in front of her, the wind whispering her tragic tale through the trees and into the great beyond, he knew what had to be done.

Even if it fractured his heart into a thousand tiny pieces he’d never be able to put back together. It had to be done.

“Abby,” he said, each syllable exhausting him as if he’d run a mile for each one that escaped his lips. “He loves you, too. He’s loved you for a long time.”

He saw a range of emotions flicker in her eyes, reflected back to him in the starlight: elation, despair, hope, fear, adoration. It was then that he realized Abby wasn’t here in 12, not completely – her body might have remained in the forests and dusts of the city, but her heart wasn’t there with her.

Her heart was inside the arena with Jake.

His had stopped beating, yielding to a desolation he had no clue how to reconcile. All this time, the hope he’d had, the way she’d clutched his hand during the broadcasts and rested her head on his shoulder when she was too tired to stay awake…all tied to a future that existed only in his head.

A future that would only ever exist in the deepest recesses of his mind. A future he’d give up to fantasy now, a future as unreachable and foreign as the Capitol itself.

A future too good for a poor boy from the Seam.

“Are you sure?” she asked timidly, in a voice he barely recognized as hers. This was the weakest he’d ever seen her. Seeing Jake in the arena had that effect on her: it sapped her of her energy, transformed her into a version of herself Marcus hardly recognized.

If he were in the arena, sacrificing himself for the life of a little girl, would she cry for him? If it had been his fate left on a cliffhanger by the Gamemakers, would she have still run off into the woods?

“I’ve known him for twelve years,” Marcus said, placing his hands securely on her shoulders, ignoring the agony that washed over him when his skin absorbed the warmth radiating from her skin. “I’m sure. Trust me.”

Her second embrace of the night was nothing like the first. It was full of hope, but not for him. It was full of despair, but not for him. It was full of love, but not for him.

And he was full of agony, grief, and guilt.

“Thank you, Marcus,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome,” he responded, willing the cold to numb his emotions as efficiently and painlessly as it had his fingers. He looked up at the stars, the same constant pinpricks of light that he’d observed with his two closest friends when they were just children. Those lights hadn’t changed.

He, Abby and Jake…they had. It was an awkward time to recall a history lecture, but his teacher’s words drifted back to his ears as if he were hearing the lesson for the first time.

_Some of those stars – even though you’re seeing them as if they’re still burning – have been burnt out for years. Gone. Consumed._

Marcus stared upward as Abby shifted in his arms, and he began to wonder how he could see those stars from somewhere other than District 12.

* * *

 

 It was irrelevant now, Marcus thought as the broadcast switched to the promised premiere footage. Jake and Abby were reunited and happy, and he was…well, he wasn’t _unhappy_. He was sitting in a room more indulgent than anything he’d have been able to dream up in his wildest fantasies. He’d somehow managed to qualify for Peacekeeper training, even though applications from his district were rarely considered. If he made it through, he might even feel content.

Jake’s hand flew to his weapon, ready to free it from its sheath if the source of the noise was unfriendly. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case.

It was a gift from sponsors, Marcus realized. Likely the first gift a tribute from Twelve had been given, and its size betrayed its high value. He didn’t know much about the cost of such presents, but it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to assume he’d never make enough in his life to be able to afford it.

_What did they send him?_

Jake made his way toward the metal box, poised to attack. It was clear that he thought the gift was a threat, a Capitol trick meant to backfire on him as soon as he let his guard down. But the box soon opened of its own accord, and Marcus squinted at the screen in order to discern what lay inside. Once he recognized it, he gasped.

It was a box of art supplies.

But they weren’t the supplies Jake had treasured back home – these were state-of-the-art, no expense spared materials. These were the finest materials the Capitol had to offer, or so it seemed.

Marcus watched as Jake glanced around, making sure none of his competitors had heard the commotion and decided to investigate. Finding the surrounding area clear, he began to remove artifacts from the box.

A set of colored and graphite pencils. A pack of pastels – these ones weren’t worn to stubs like the ones he kept in his home – and a sketchbook. Markers. An eraser. A note.

 _Draw something for us,_ it read. It was a wonder the people in the Capitol had remembered Jake’s affinity for art: he’d only mentioned it once, in his interview, when the announcer had asked him how he liked to spend his free time.

_“I like to draw,” Jake said._

_“And what do you like to draw, Jake Griffin?”_

_“I draw things that inspire me. Things I think are beautiful. There’s enough pain in the world, don’t you think?”_

Jake smiled, an expression of genuine gratitude. Marcus knew that smile. There was real happiness behind those eyes, probably returning for the first time since he left District 12. His life had undoubtedly been a nightmare since that train pulled away from the station, and this was a silver lining in the dark clouds that had comprised his life since his name had been pulled from that glass globe.

Even after everything that had happened the night after these events occurred, Marcus couldn’t keep himself from smiling at his friends’ joy. The Capitol chose to show the darkest parts of the games, the parts that resonated with shock and often provoked disgust. But they didn’t give screentime to moments of true happiness, moments that proved that even in darkness, there was light to be found.

Watching his friend’s smile widen, Marcus wished they would.

Surveying his surroundings yet again, Jake opened the box of pencils and peeled back the front cover of the sketchbook. His hands were shaking as he gripped the instrument, vibrating with a mixture of adrenaline and excitement.

The camera zoomed in on the pencil when it first met the paper, and Marcus imagined everyone in the Capitol audience holding their breath as they waited to see what their beloved victor chose to sketch.

It was a few minutes before a clear image appeared. Jake continued to shade, trace, and erase as he saw fit. For those moments, he wasn’t on trial for his life in a Capitol death trap: he was back in his home, sitting on his windowsill, with a range of infinite possibilities at his fingertips.

The footage sped up, possibly to alleviate the audience’s anticipation. Many minutes of deliberate shading blurred to mere seconds, and finally the audience was treated to the finished product.

Marcus gasped, jaw dropping open as he observed the lines in Jake’s sketchbook and what they composed. Or rather, _whom_ they composed.

It was Abby.

He’d drawn her exactly as she was when he’d left, wearing the dark blue reaping day dress her mother had given her as a good luck charm. Her hair trailed down her right shoulder in a free-flowing braid, with some strands breaking free to frame the sides of her face. Her lips were drawn upward in a carefree smile, and her eyes sparkled with her trademark optimism. Even in black and white, she was breathtaking.

The screen went black, switching back to the two announcers who seemed to be holding back tears.

“Do you remember when he said he drew things that inspired him?” the man named Ceasar asked, wiping his eyes. “It would seem we just found the source of Jake Griffin’s inspiration, my friends.”

A chorus of ‘awwwww’’s rang throughout the audience, and Marcus smiled while his stomach churned. It was true – Jake really did love Abby. And Abby loved Jake. And he was thousands of miles away, sitting in a Capitol bedroom, watching old footage when he really should have been sleeping.

But that thing in his chest had awoken when he saw her face, brought to life on a piece of paper inside a sketchbook that was Jake Griffin’s lifeline through the arena’s living hell. It stirred and it stretched, and it roared.

“Now, we know more about this girl than just that,” the other announcer said. “Do you all remember the day he went home? Well, it would seem they were reunited. Or so we think.”

_They were. I was there to see it._

Ceasar explained that they didn’t have the reunion footage yet, but once they did his audience would be the first to watch it.

“A love story for the ages,” he concluded, and cheers erupted throughout the room. “After all, what truer love is there-“ he paused for dramatic effect – “than a love worth living for?”

Marcus shut off the program, wishing it was that easy to halt the flood of emotions surging through his chest.


	3. Day One

“ _All recruits, report to the dining hall immediately…you have five minutes to arrive, or you will be dismissed.”_

The intercom served as a makeshift alarm and Marcus jolted awake, wincing as he tried to move his legs, his arms, his neck. No avail, at least not on the first attempt. Sleep had snuck up on him unannounced, and he hadn’t succumbed to it gracefully.

Pain radiated through him from head to toe as he forced himself from the warmth of his bed, sliding down onto the cool tile floor. He pulled the pajamas off and folded them carefully on the bed after he’d made it – such luxuries were not to be handled gracelessly.

He picked up the training outfit he’d displaced to rest on his desk the night before, taking a few seconds just to let the fabric slip through his fingers. It was smooth, soft, clean: everything his old clothes from District 12 weren’t. The uniform consisted of a short-sleeved shirt and a pair of pants, both white with a single gold stripe running up the left side of both pieces. _The color of Panem’s seal,_ he pondered absentmindedly, thoughts still muddy after a night of restless rest. A pair of new shoes waited for him, and he pulled them on and tied them without much thought.

The clothes he’d worn yesterday during initiation – his only real connection back to 12 – lay in a heap beside his bed, and his eyes caught on them as he surveyed his quarters. What to do with them? It was unlikely he’d ever wear them again. During training they would be told what to wear, what to eat, what to do. The patched jacket, unraveling shirt, and worn out pants he’d brought from home wouldn’t fit into his training schedule. That said, he couldn’t let go of them. Not yet.

Realizing he had precious little time left before he needed to head to the dining hall, Marcus picked up his belongings and folded them neatly, laying them on the floor so that they wouldn’t contribute any dust or dirt to the cleanliness of his accommodations. His hands hovered over the jacket for longer than any other of his garments, and his gaze came to rest on a circular silver pin that still rested on its lapel.

If he hadn’t been so exhausted yesterday, he would have removed it and placed it somewhere safer, somewhere more worthy of its splendor than the floor. As it was now, he was ashamed of himself for allowing it to spend the night there. _What was I thinking?_ he chided himself, unfastening it from the thin cloth and taking it in his hands. The metal warmed instantly at the contact from his skin, and he pinned it to the neck of his shirt.

The metal scratched him slightly where it made contact with his chest, but he ignored the unpleasant sensation. It was silly, he knew, to give in to superstition at a time like this. But for some reason, he didn’t want to be without it on his first day of training. The pin was a memento of a bittersweet memory, one that both sapped his strength and empowered him. Someday, farther down the line in his training, he would be able to exist without it. He could let it rest on the corner of his desk and take off to the dining hall without its comforting weight, pay it little mind as he closed the door to his room and locked it with the touch of his finger to the keypad. But he needed that pin today. As loath as he was to admit it.

He checked the clock – Marcus had seven minutes to make it from his room to the dining hall. He snatched the book off his desk and opened it to the interior cover, where a map of the building resided. Fortunately, the dining hall was just down the stairs at the end of the corridor. All things considered, it was an excellent setup.

Clutching his book to his chest, Marcus stepped outside his room and into the brightly-lit hallway. A few of his companions gave him sideways glances as they passed, and he wondered if he was formally known as ‘the boy from District 12’ to them now. Could news have spread that quickly? Had he announced it loudly enough for the entire room to hear? The most likely explanation, he decided, was that it was all in his head. And he wasn’t going to let himself start his first day with a dose of paranoia.

He locked the door behind him, hearing the door bolt closed as he touched his thumb to the scanner above the door. Following the instructions inside his book, he set the keypad to a three-digit code he knew he’d remember. 815. Or rather, August 15th. The day he received word he’d been accepted into training. It also happened to be Abby’s birthday, but that wasn’t why he chose it.

Marcus made his way down the stone steps, gripping the railing more for insurance than for support. He’d never been extremely graceful – when Jake had climbed trees in the forest or jumped headfirst into the lake they’d found in the woods, Marcus deigned only to watch – and the last thing he needed right now was to trip and injure himself on the first day of the rest of his life.

Eventually he reached the dining hall, marking himself present by touching his finger to a similar keypad to the one outside his room. The scanner flashed green for a moment and displayed his name, and he knew all was well. He’d passed his first test.

His first day, his first triumph.

* * *

“Do you mind if I sit here?” Marcus asked while holding a tray of food, and a boy glanced up from his copy of The Laws of Panem to give a brief nod. Marcus couldn’t help but notice the lack of a tray on his side of the table, and felt the need to inquire about it. Anything to help start a conversation, to forge something resembling an alliance.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked, and the boy closed his book with a small sigh.

“I don’t _need_ to eat,” he said.

Marcus could read between the lines: his breakfast companion was nervous. He saw it in the little things, the details that slipped through his composed façade. His hands were shaking, if only slightly. The bench on his side of the table vibrated, and he guessed the boy was bouncing his leg up and down. Perhaps if he were a competitor from a lower-numbered district, he would have found the boy’s nervousness to be a sign of weakness.

He knew better. He knew nerves were a sign of commitment, not fear. As his mother always used to tell him before an important test at school or, more frequently, before getting inoculations: _if you have butterflies in your stomach, it means you care. Embrace them, don’t run from them._

This wasn’t a weak boy. This was a boy who _cared_.

“My name’s Marcus,” he introduced himself, trying to keep words flowing as they waited for their next direction. “Marcus Kane.” He extended a hand across the table to the dark-skinned boy, and he grasped it briefly, but tightly.

“David Miller,” he said, and Marcus flashed him a cordial smile.

“It’s nice to meet you, David.”

David returned the smile, gave a small nod in his direction.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. Kane…” David trailed off for a moment, eyes exploring the room around them as he lost himself in thought. “You’re the guy from Twelve, right?”

 _Damn._ He couldn’t deny it, but he didn’t want to advertise it.

“Yes,” Marcus said, forcing himself to remain undeterred by David’s revelation although part of him was screaming in agony. “Where are you from?”

“Eleven,” David said, and that simple word swept away the majority of his worries surrounding his new companion. If trainees from Twelve were rare, trainees from Eleven had to be equally few in number.

“Are there many of you here?” he asked, genuinely curious. 

“Not as far as I know,” David said. “There was one other boy on the train with me, but I don’t see him.”

Marcus and David both knew what ‘not seeing him’ meant.

“Are there many of you here?” David repeated his question back to him. Marcus shook his head.

“I think I’m the only one.”

David nodded. “Makes sense.”

Marcus offered a scowl in response, and David continued without being prompted.

“It’s just…look around. I’m the only one from Eleven, and you’re the only one from Twelve. We’re in a room full of Career tributes that never got their spotlight. Haven’t you noticed a trend?”

He had noticed the trend once he heard them reciting their districts.

“Yes,” he responded simply, not sure where the conversation was headed.

“Do you ever wonder if this is going to be rigged against us?” David asked, lowering his tone to a whisper. “I mean, what if they only want Peacekeepers to be from Career districts?”

“I don’t see why they’d do that,” Marcus said, scraping food off his plate. The sound grated on his nerves, but he wasn’t willing to let any of the meal go to waste. That included the crumbs residing on the edge of the porcelain. “Why bother recruiting us if that’s true? They could have accepted more applicants from Career districts, then.”

David stared at him for a long moment, his brown eyes meeting Marcus’ as he carefully downed the last of his water.

“All I’m saying is we might want to look out for each other.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but a tall man in uniform entered the room and began giving orders before he could make a sound. His hair was gray but his face was youthful, and Marcus wondered if he’d dyed his hair to adhere to one of the Capitol’s obscure fashion trends. In Twelve, survival was the only style of the season.

“Return your dishes to the conveyer belt if you have not already done so,” the man with the gray hair ordered. “Half of you will begin academic training today, and the other half will begin in physical. Both components are designed to test your limits, to see if you are truly capable of upholding our way of life. If you are deemed capable of maintaining the peace we have created, you will become a Peacekeeper. If not, you will be dismissed. You will need to excel in both areas of training to pass.”

Marcus and David shared a look, and at that moment he made a decision.

As much as he’d gone into the training thinking he’d be able to endure whatever hardships he faced by himself, he now wondered if that had been a foolish impression. David wasn’t wrong: they were surrounded by competitors who had trained to be victors and never entered the arena. They had a lot of practice, a lot of skill, and hand-to-hand training would be where they’d use it.

“But first, some rules,” the gray-haired man said. “First, no fighting. You’ll have plenty of time for that in physical training. Second, from this point on, there will be no talking. You are allowed to talk at meals and in unscheduled periods only. During training, you will speak only if spoken to. Understood?”

A chorus of “yes, sir!” rang out across the room. The words felt foreign in Marcus’ mouth, unused, awkward to the point of meaninglessness.

“And finally,” the man continued, “You will continue to adhere to the Capitol’s rules and regulations. Being here does not absolve you of watching mandatory broadcasts, even if they interfere with your studies. You will learn to plan around broadcast times instead of attempting to study during them. If you are found to not be watching a mandatory program, you will be dismissed. Understood?”

 _Mandatory programs,_ Marcus thought. His stomach sank as he remembered the footage he’d watched the previous night instead of sleeping, as he realized that had probably been mandatory viewing at some point.

No matter how hard he tried to put the past behind him, it kept finding its way back.

_Mandatory programs that’ll probably be about Jake and Abby._

He was so lost in thought that he failed to contribute to the wave of “yes, sir!”s that swept the dining area, but the man with the gray hair didn’t notice. None of his competitors noticed.

No one noticed but David Miller. 

* * *

 

“What’s that?” David asked, pointing to the pin on the lapel of his jacket. Marcus flinched, suddenly flooded with the memory of the day it had been given to him.

His mother had come to the train station to see him off, as had Abby. Jake would have been there, but the Victory Tour demanded his presence. He had left a few days ago, waving from this same wooden platform where the send-off ribbons and streamers still hung limply, ghosts of a happier time.

Abby had seemed distant since he left. Her mind was in Twelve, but yet again her heart was elsewhere. She fidgeted slightly in the early morning sun, clouds of white mist escaping her lips with each exhale she pushed against the cool winter air. A few snowflakes danced on the light breeze, dotting her brown hair with flecks of white. Her hands, covered in knitted wool mittens made of gray yarn, trembled slightly. Whether from the cold or saying goodbye to a friend, Marcus would never know.

He didn’t want to know, he thought as he watched a shiver run through her. Some things were better left unsaid.

There might have been a good reason for her distracted state, even if she hadn’t been in love with Jake or upset about him leaving. Something had changed in Jake since he returned from the Games, though Marcus couldn’t pinpoint what it was. His smile had shrunk by a few molars, his laugh was less robust. It was a laugh that carried a burden, a laugh weighed down by the horrors of the arena.

Of course, he and Abby could never know exactly what their friend had been through. They’d seen it – taken in the atrocities through a screen on the wall – but that would never be the same as experiencing it. It wouldn’t even come close.

Marcus hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to Jake alone since he returned, but he guessed that Abby had. Or perhaps, he thought with a pang of guilt, it wasn’t that he hadn’t had the chance, but he hadn’t taken the opportunity when it arrived. They exchanged pleasantries – “How are you?” “I’m all right, Marcus.” “Congratulations.” “I’m just happy to be here.”

But it was moments like that, he reflected, that were part of his reason for leaving Twelve. She and Jake were good for each other. They both cared deeply for people around them. They both believed in doing the right thing, no matter the cost. They were both wealthy, smart, and bound to be successful. If they made each other happy, he had no logical reason not to be happy for them.

And yet…

It was hard not to resent Jake, just a little. He had always been the boy who had everything – a fancier house, a happy family, and now a victor to boot. Jealousy, Marcus knew, wasn’t a flattering emotion. Especially considering the hell Jake had endured in the arena. Especially considering the number of times he’d almost lost his life. Especially considering how he never really left the Capitol’s watchful eye, how there were cameras on him almost every second of the day.

And yet…

He looked at Abby again, making a valiant attempt to keep from shivering in her wool coat, and realized it might be the last time he ever saw her. Now, with snowflakes melting to water droplets that created tiny rainbows in her hair when they caught the light, and her chocolate-brown eyes that looked like they were about to melt with tears…these might be the last moments he had to share with her.

Abby Walters. The girl he’d grown up laughing with, the girl he’d grown up encouraging to pursue her dream of being a doctor when her parents wanted her to marry a wealthy man and somehow – thought it was illegal without a permit – leave District 12, the girl who stayed up all night with him to study for examinations with him while Jake fell asleep in a corner (he wasn’t much of a studier, but he still did well. Somehow), the girl whose smile lit up places inside him he never knew had gone dark.

Her enthusiasm was infectious, her laughter contagious, her heart and kindness catching. And somehow, along the way, he’d become infected with the way her eyes glittered when she was excited, the way her voice caught when she talked about her future (she was going to medical school in another district, Marcus always knew she could do it, she just had to have the courage to apply), the way her gaze held a featherlike softness when she looked at the people she cared about. She’d worked her way into his bloodstream, and by the time he started showing symptoms it was too late for him to be treated.

He couldn’t tell her. To tell her now would be to shatter everything she had with Jake, to break down the very foundations of their relationship and watch it crumble around the three of them. She didn’t feel the same, so what would be the point in telling her, anyway? The last thing in the world he wanted to do was cause her pain, and if she knew his feelings…she’d know why he was leaving. Or at least, a portion of the reason.

The other portion of that reason wrapped its arms around him, nearly crushing him in its embrace, and he held it back just as tightly.

“Be safe,” Vera Kane whispered in his ear, and he felt tears pricking in his eyes, warm against the impenetrable cold. “Marcus, I know you’re set in your decision. But if you change your mind…you’ll always be able to come home to me. No matter if you pass the training or not, you’ll always be my little boy.”

Normally such childish displays of affection would have made him cringe, but not today. Because today could also be his last day with his mother – she’d hear from him, of course, in letters and (hopefully) portions of monetary compensations given to him from the Capitol for his service. But letters couldn’t portray the kindness in her eyes, the warmth in her voice, the love he felt in every second of her embrace. A letter would never suffice.

 _Don’t look back,_ he told himself, even though he hadn’t yet left the station. _Don’t look back._

“I will,” he promised her, leaning back to hold his mother at arms’ length. If he was lucky, he’d be able to provide her with a much nicer coat than the one she wore now, the threadbare scraps of material held together by stray stitches. There was no possibility it kept her warm, but she wouldn’t show it. “I’ve read about the Capitol before,” he continued, trying to reassure her. “I found some books at the Hob, I know what to expect.”

Abby snorted, a soft, short sound, and Marcus pretended not to notice.

“Do you have everything you need?” Vera asked, resorting to her motherly role. “I packed you some bread. Jake’s parents were kind enough to give it to me this morning.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said, paying no mind to the way his stomach dropped when she mentioned Jake. That was the one goodbye he wasn’t saying, and it would have been the hardest. “I’ll be sure to eat it on the train.”

 _Well_ , he thought as he looked at the girl in the gray coat. _Maybe not the hardest._

“I love you, Marcus,” Vera said, looking him straight in the eye. It was then that he knew she knew the gravity of the moment as well: she knew this wasn’t just goodbye for a few months. This could be goodbye forever.

She knew it, she accepted it, because it was the choice her son had made.

So Marcus did something he had done less and less often as he grew older: he drew his mother to him in a tight hug. After all, it was a hug that would have to last him years. He wanted this moment to stick in his memory with more than just words.

“I love you, too,” he said, and wasn’t surprised to hear how his voice shook.

After nearly a minute of hugging, Vera stepped away and collected herself with a small sigh.

“I’ll give you two some time,” she said, looking from Abby to him. He wondered what assumptions his mother had made about the relationship between the two of them. He hadn’t told her about Jake – he thought that was self-explanatory, given how they looked at each other, how she ran to him when he returned from the Games – could they both have been oblivious? Perhaps it ran in the family, he mused.

Vera stepped away down the platform, undoubtedly looking into the distance for the train that would separate her from her son indefinitely. That left Marcus, Abby, and the inches of icy air that separated the two of them.

Inches of air that Abby closed, stepping forward with an urgency he hadn’t seen since Jake was reaped. Since she thought she might lose him forever. In a fraction of a second she’d folded herself into his arms, and without realizing it his arms had risen from his sides to hold her, too.

She smelled sweet, like the flowers she used to pick from the woods when they were young. Or, in their adolescence, the medicinal herbs she wandered into the forest to find. But she also smelled of the pine trees, the woods that surrounded their home, the vast expanses of the forest they explored when they fantasized they could run off, live somewhere else, _be_ someone else. Those games, he thought, ended when they were young.

But his games were just beginning.

“You’re sure this is what you want,” she whispered as she stepped back. It was more of a statement than a question because she knew, even when he wasn’t certain. But these were placeholder words, syllables used in places of the arrangements they both wanted to make. They couldn’t start off at the heart of the matter, not if they wanted to make it through the conversation without shattering.

In all his years of friendship with Abigail Walters, he’d never noticed her eyes had flecks of green in the center. Not until now, when he was saying a possibly permanent goodbye, did he see the mixture of colors they ensnared: a deep, earthy green that slowly ran a gradient to the color of good soil, a color that meant they would have food during the winter.

His chest hurt, and he had to look away.

“I’m sure,” he said, his heart expanding in his chest. She nodded, as if this was the response she knew she’d receive.

“Do you know if you’ll be able to come back?” she asked, her eyes searching his for a response far happier than the one he’d have to give.

“I don’t know, Abby,” he said. “I don’t know where I’ll be assigned after I complete the training.”

He wouldn’t let himself think about what would happen if he didn’t complete the training.

He’d made an attempt to slick back his hair before he left the district: an aim at looking proper that never quite hit the target. His deep brown locks weren’t held in place by the mixture of water and soap he concocted, and they drifted into his eyes as he continued to look at her. Instinctually, she reached up and brushed them away from his face.

Redness crept into his cheeks, but he hoped he could downplay it as a side effect of the cold.

“When do you leave for school?” he asked, hoping to shift the topic of conversation away from him for a few minutes. He checked his watch – the train wasn’t supposed to arrive for another five minutes.

Five minutes. He had five minutes left with the two people in the world he loved most.

“Spring,” she said simply.

“That’s good,” Marcus said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as hollow as his chest felt. “You’re happy about that, right?”

“Of course I am,” she responded. “I just don’t want to be treated differently because of where I’m from. I want to make my own path. And I don’t want anything to be handed to me if the Capitol finds out about Jake and I.”

The fire that burned behind her eyes, that blazing determination that only roared brighter with every year she grew older…it was as if there was a vise around his lungs, and with every word she spoke it tightened.

“No one has to hand anything to you, Abby,” he said. “You have it already.”

She smiled, and a few tears dripped down her reddening cheeks. The cold, Marcus reasoned. It was all because of the cold.

“I have something for you,” she said suddenly, as if she just remembered it. He scowled. “It’s small, so you can’t tell me you don’t want it,” she added, as if she’d read his mind. She was always exceptionally good at that.

Before he could get a word out, she reached into her pocket and carefully extracted a circular silver pin, an inch in diameter. There were several interlocking semicircles engraved in the center, and stars framed the edges of the design. It was silver, shiny, and undoubtedly expensive. Despite his gratitude, Marcus tilted his head and sighed.

“Abby, how much did that cost?”

“That’s not important,” she said sternly. And while money was perhaps not an object to the Walters family, the fact remained…

“I told you not to do this,” he said.

“I don’t care,” she retorted.

He looked from her eyes to the pin in her outstretched palm, gave another sigh, and reached out to take it from her. She smiled.

“There was a poem that went with it, too,” she said. “I don’t know where it came from, but I thought it worked for today.”

“What is it?”

She pulled out a piece of typed paper: likely came with the pin, he reasoned.

“It’s called The Traveler’s Blessing,” she said. “I can read it to you, if you want.”

He nodded, the pin warming in his hand, pressing its design into his skin, and he was suddenly unable to speak.

“In peace, may you leave this shore,” she began. “In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground.”

She looked him in the eyes, trembling lips forming the final four words.

“May we meet again.”

A train whistle sounded in the distance, and he felt his heart start to race. Did he have time to hold her, to draw her in for one last hug? Would it seem too abrupt if he did, a betrayal of feelings she saw only as platonic? He yearned to be close to her, to minimize the distance between them until there was nothing left. But now, with seconds until he’d leave her behind, he felt frozen.

She held out the poem to him, but he shook his head.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, “But I don’t know if they’d let me keep it. We’re only allowed one token.”

Naturally, his token would be the pin. The small pack his mother had provided would be taken upon his arrival and his entire person searched, which was why the belongings that meant the most to him had stayed at their home. It would be better for it stay here with her or Vera, where it could be kept safe instead of tossed in the Capitol’s trash.

“All right,” Abby said with a deep, resigned sigh, tucking it back into her pocket. He wondered if she’d give it to his mother once he left, or if she’d keep it.

She reached out and took both of his hands in her own. “Be safe,” she said sternly. “You’re smarter than they are.”

“Take care of her,” Marcus changed the subject, watching over her shoulder as his mother approached to say her final goodbye. “Please, Abby. Don’t let her starve.”

“We won’t,” she said. ‘We’, of course, was her and Jake. But for the time being, with the train rushing toward him and the world crumbling at his feet, he didn’t mind the association. Setting his jumbled feelings for the girl in front of him aside, he was thankful she and the boy she loved wouldn’t let his mother go hungry while he underwent training. That was a friendship for which he would always be overwhelmingly grateful.

Moving quickly, as if she realized their time together had reached its final moments, Abby leaned in and briefly pressed her lips against his cheek. The sensation made him dizzy, the warmth of her despite the numbing cold, and his head felt light.

How many times had he wished for that moment, only to receive it as a goodbye that would soon become nothing more than a memory? Than another snapshot in time he’d have to forget to move forward?

She seemed destined to fade to black and white in his head, to blur into a distant recollection. So he tried to take in every color, an attempt to add vividness to her image so, as much pain as it caused him, he’d be able to remember her once the anguish dissipated. The flecks of green in her brown eyes. Her porcelain skin, flushed from the cold. The way her hair trailed down her shoulders as the wind lifted and played with it.

“Take care of yourself, Marcus,” she said after breaking the contact, still too close for him to think straight. “Please.”

“I will,” he breathed, hoping he wasn’t making a promise he couldn’t keep.

She stepped away from him, dropping his hands, and he felt his heart splinter inside his chest. The last time he’d ever touch Abigail Walters. He thought it would feel like freedom to be separated from her, that perhaps it would help him get his emotions under control, but not yet. Not when he could still see tears slipping down her cheeks.

He shared one last ‘I love you’ with his mother, then the train slowed to a stop. It wasn’t exactly a shocking sight, not so soon after Jake’s victory tour departure, but the sleek design and quiet mechanics still took him aback.

He couldn’t help a flicker of anticipation from racing through his veins, numbing the dread for just a heartbeat as he stepped onto the train. The Capitol. He, a boy from District 12, was really going to see the Capitol. But he wasn’t just going to see it: he was going to train there. Because for some reason, his application had been accepted.

He was just as worthy of a chance as the boys from the other districts.

The surroundings were lavish, of course, but he’d surmised they would be when he talked to Jake. _They spare no expense,_ he had said. _I’m sure you’ll be treated well._

He hadn’t been wrong, Marcus thought as he looked around at the trays full of food and the velvet seats. Even for a recruit from District 12, this was luxurious beyond his wildest dreams.

Locating a seat next to a window where he could see his mother and Abby on the platform, Marcus waited for the train to start moving with a pit in his stomach and a rapid pulse. His eyes burned, but he wouldn’t allow himself to show weakness. Not now.

All too soon, he felt the ground moving beneath him. A desperation swept over him and his hands began to shake. He looked from his mother, who was wiping tears from her cheeks, to Abby, whose emotions were betrayed by her shaking shoulders and trembling lips.

“ _May we meet again,”_ she mouthed as the train began its journey toward a future Marcus had never been less sure if he wanted. But now wasn’t the time to second guess, to give in to his doubts.

“May we meet again,” he whispered.

She smiled, if only for a fraction of a second, and he clutched the pin tightly in his grip.

Then she was gone.

* * *

 

“It’s nothing,” Marcus said after a beat, knowing he’d hesitated too long. David smiled, wincing as his cracked lip protested against the motion. It was hard enough for him to open his mouth to eat, and a smile was pushing the blemished skin to the edge of its capabilities.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing,” he observed. “Is it your token?”

“Yes,” Marcus admitted, terse. “It’s from home.”

“I’m surprised they let you bring something sharp. Did you get it in Twelve?” David asked, a cough severing his question midway through. “From what I’ve heard, it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d find there.”

His remark was meant as a joke but Marcus stiffened, and David reached forward to place a comforting hand on his arm.

“Don’t get me wrong, Kane. I’m sorry. Maybe you found it, or traded for it. I don’t know. Were you related to someone from the Capitol? Or, I mean, you were friends with Jake Griffin…”

David let silence consume the end of his sentence as he retracted his hand, and Marcus sensed he hadn’t yet made peace with the fact that he’d been childhood friends with the Capitol’s latest champion. Sometimes Marcus felt he hadn’t made peace with that, either.

“I didn’t get it from Jake,” he said coolly. For a few minutes, they ate their meal in silence. Then, as Marcus knew it would, David’s curiosity got the better of him.

“Who’d you get it from, then? You never did tell me if you had any relatives in the Capitol.”

“I don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”

His companion was quiet, waiting for an answer to another question left unresolved. The last thing Marcus Kane wanted to do was dredge up her memory, but after heavy consideration he determined there wasn’t a good way around it. He didn’t want to lie to the only friend he had, especially when companionship was the key to success.

“The pin was a goodbye gift. From a friend,” he said, keeping his tone curt and hoping David would pick up on his terseness. He didn’t, of course.

“Hell of a goodbye gift,” he said with an appreciative whistle. “Expensive. You two must have been close.”

 _Sure,_ Marcus thought with a healthy dose of sarcasm. _If you count realizing you’re in love with her too late to do anything about it ‘close’._

“You could say that,” Marcus said, pushing carrots around his plate as he fixated his gaze on a single gray stone in the table’s marbled surface. “Do we have to talk about this?” he asked, a little more harshly than he meant to. “That’s all in the past now.”

David shrugged, shoveling forkfuls of food into his mouth. Physical training had taken a toll on him, but it had also given him a voracious appetite.

“Guess not, but I wondered why you wore the same pin every day. You’re lucky the instructors let it slide. They could see it as a weapon.”

“Well, I’ve never been late to training, I’ve followed orders, I haven’t been in any fights. If the most rebellious thing about me is this –“ he tapped the circular disk on his lapel – “I think they’ll let it go.”

“Fair enough,” David said. “But I’d be careful, if I were you. If it has sentimental value, I’d leave it in my room. I don’t know if it would last through physical. Or if someone else decides they want it…”

“Fighting’s not allowed,” Marcus said, scowling. Who would be stupid enough to go against rules that had been directly stated on the first day of training? They’d almost have to _want_ to be kicked out.

“Fighting’s not allowed if you get caught,” David corrected him. “I guess your floor’s more peaceful than mine.”

“People fight on yours?” Marcus asked, confused. “Why?”

“Competition,” David answered. “Some of the guys see others as a threat.”

Having not gone through physical training yet, Marcus felt both incredibly weak and slightly stupid.

“Why? Enough people have been dismissed by now. We can all pass.”

David dropped his fork as his mouth hung slightly open. He appeared amazed that Marcus hadn’t arrived at the right conclusion.

“They’re not just thinking about passing the final tests, Kane,” he said. “They’re thinking beyond that. To who gets promoted, who gets the good jobs once we’re out of here. Some of these guys have been together for years, but just now started seeing each other as competitors instead of allies.”

 _At least I don’t have fights breaking out on my floor,_ Marcus thought. Sleep didn’t come easily every night, but that was because of internal factors. Not because one of the nameless Career recruits had taken to pummeling another to get a promotion.

“Well, we have nothing to worry about, then,” Marcus said. He hoped it was true – he and David had no history with the rest of the trainees, and he wondered now if that would work to their advantage. Sure, being from Twelve wasn’t glamorous. Insults were hurled, nicknames were assigned. But if his lack of prominence kept his bones intact, he’d be grateful for it.

“Sure,” David agreed without a trace of enthusiasm, and as curious as Marcus felt he decided to drop the subject. His dinner was reduced to tiny crumbs on his plate, and exhaustion coursed through him with every thrum of his heartbeat. It was time to shower, read the chapter they’d discuss in academic the next day, and make a halfhearted attempt at getting some sleep.

“I’m done,” he said as he rose from his seat, fingers closing around the plastic tray as he lifted it and pushed in his chair with his opposite hand.

“Yeah, me too,” David agreed, doing the same. They placed their trays on the conveyor belt in unison and made their way toward the staircase, two of the earliest retirees from dinner.

Marcus arrived at his floor first, and gave his friend a small wave.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, all tension from their earlier conversation evaporated. David smiled.

“See you tomorrow, Kane.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, feel free to leave kudos or a comment! Always appreciated. <3


	4. Rebellion

The chapter assigned for reading and recitation was entitled _Rebellion._

 _What could they want us to learn about rebellions?_ Marcus wondered semi-dreamily, exhausted. It seemed counterintuitive, he thought, to teach them about a subject so taboo. No one dared rebel against the Capitol. A losing battle awaited the sorry soul who made an attempt, no matter how they'd suffered in the districts.

Was everything the Capitol did fair? Just? Balanced? Not in the slightest. The games themselves were evidence of that. But was it at the very least a system, better than the chaos from which Panem emerged? Absolutely. The Capitol was twisted, backwards, but at least it was _something_. It prevented chaos, slipping back into the void from which their society formed.

The first portion of the chapter was a relatively concise review of the history of times predating Panem’s existence: the war, the rebellion, the suffering the people had conquered. Marcus didn’t envy those who lived back then, although he’d learned most of the aforementioned history in his classes in school and through various reading he’d completed on his own.

When he was younger, Marcus read almost everything he could get his hands on: instructional manuals to long-obsolete technologies, novels with words he wouldn’t understand until he was much older, textbooks with histories of places he never knew existed and was almost convinced were fictional.

He absorbed it all like a sponge, although the knowledge leaked out as he grew. There was no way to store it, to retain everything he read, when so much of his brain was needed elsewhere. To help he and his mother survive. And then there was the matter of Abby and Jake, his friends, and they had their own places in his head and heart. Much of what he read was missing when he tried to recall it years later, but the history of Panem remained.

But this chapter, he reasoned, was about more than just the history of the country.

He was right.

 _Rebellion cannot be tolerated,_ he read, trying not to roll his eyes at the redundancy of the text. Of course rebellion couldn’t be tolerated. Rebellion would threaten the foundations of the system they’d built, and they’d be left with nothing again. Ashes where cities used to be. More heartbreak, more pain. Did the author of this book really have to spell it out for them? Wouldn’t common sense just have told them the same thing?

With an exasperated sigh, knowing he’d have to recite portions of the text from memory tomorrow, he massaged his aching temples and kept reading.

_With rebellion comes lack of control, and with lack of control comes anarchy. No stable governing system has emerged from a period of anarchy, and it is for the people’s benefit that the Capitol must be kept upright and rebellions must be quelled._

_Thus, the system for punishment where rebellion is involved is abundantly clear: rebels must be silenced at any, and all, costs. Our peaceful government has survived even the harshest of conditions, and we cannot allow it to collapse at the hands of clumsy civilians who do not understand how the system works. It is fragile, but strong. It must be upheld at all costs. Thus, the punishment for rebellion and treason is death._

Marcus’ stomach clenched as he read the final statement. He expected the sentence to be harsh, but the knowledge that he could someday have to carry out that sentence….it was enough to make him vomit every last morsel of his dinner into the airbrushed trash can beside his desk.

_Think about your mother. She needs you to do this. You can’t support her if you work in the mines. You'll barely be able to support yourself if you choose that life._

After a few moments of panic, of trembling fingers and air rushing from his lungs and cramming it back down his throat, he reassured himself. No one would be idiotic enough to go against the Capitol. Not because they were benevolent or kind, as the text had said, but because it was a suicide mission. A death wish. They’d have to value their own life extremely little, to go up against the monster of a government Panem created and delude themselves into the possibility they could win.

Not to mention the impracticality of it all. The Capitol had certain divisions, certain sectors within the high reaches of its ranks that were devoted to sniffing out potential rebellious sources and exterminating them. Chances were that before anything could occur, their plans would be halted.

Marcus didn’t want to think about what happened to the rebels after that.

He skimmed the rest of the chapter, reading words but not absorbing them. Nothing stayed pinned inside the cork board of his brain the way tales of knights and queens had stuck in his eight-year-old subconscious. With a sigh, he glanced at the clock. 20:01. This was the earliest he’d considered showering and going to sleep, but what else could he do? His eyes drifted to the remote that controlled the holographic television, but he didn’t feel strong enough for the Capitol’s broadcasts tonight.

He was out his door, locking it with his fingerprint and climbing the flights of stairs before his brain registered he’d left his room.

David hadn’t told him exactly where he lived on the sixth floor, but the doors were labeled. So when Marcus, clad in his zipped hoodie and sweatpants, arrived at David Miller’s door at 20:15, the dark-skinned boy didn’t question his presence. Besides, it was nice to have a friend...if ‘friends’ was really what they were. 

“Hey, Kane,” he said, looking up and down the darkened hallway as if he were worried someone were watching them. “Are you coming in?”

Marcus stepped inside without a word, and David locked the door behind him.

The first thing Marcus noticed was the smell. Their rooms were similar in terms of décor and arrangement, but the smell was different. His room smelled clean, like the antiseptic Abby used to clean her hands before treating the young kids from the Seam who couldn’t afford to pay a doctor. But David’s room smelled sweet, like the woods after a heavy rainfall, and he found the source of the scent as it burned on the corner of his desk. Candles were banned, that much he knew, but somehow David Miller had managed to sneak one in.

“How did you sneak a candle in here?” he asked incredulously. David laughed.

“I didn’t,” he said.

“Then how…” Marcus trailed off, solving the equation.

Somehow, he had no idea how, David Miller had stolen the candle from one of the officials. Stealing was another breach of the regulations, but so was fighting. And judging by the sounds that crept from the outside into his friend’s little quarters, no one cared much for the regulations on the sixth floor. David walked over to the corner and blew the flame out, covering the charred wick with a silver lid.

“Someone might smell the smoke, and then I’d _really_ be in trouble,” he said with a sheepish smile. “No one knows it’s missing. They have a ton of them in the storage closet on this floor, don’t ask me why.”

He couldn’t help it. 

“Why…why did you break into the storage closet?”

David shifted a little in the faint light, his posture changing as his shoulders slumped. He moved to sit in his desk chair, huffed out a deep breath.

“No one else on this floor figured out the code, as far as I know,” he said. “So if anyone tried to pick a fight with me, I’d have somewhere safe to hide.”

Marcus’ scowl of disapproval turned to one of concern.

“Are things really that bad here?” he asked, although the answer was written in David’s expression, in the sadness that had overtaken his gaze.

“They’re not great,” the dark-skinned boy answered. “They’re not great.”

Marcus leaned with his back against the door, wondering when his head would stop spinning. The scent of the candle still lingered in the air and wafted into his nostrils, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the forest, the way the forest had smelled _that night_ , the night he couldn’t forget and yet his brain forced him to remember. His pulse was a roaring lion, his emotions were its claws, and everything was painful.

 _I should’ve stayed in my room,_ he thought with no small amount of remorse. Of course, he wouldn’t let such weakness show.

“You don’t have to hide in a storage closet, David,” he said, and his companion’s head shot up from where it rested in his hands. “If they start a fight with you, you won’t be fighting alone.”

The gratitude shining in his friend’s eyes made his heart swell, and the grin that parted his lips and flashed his white teeth was eerily reminiscent of that of a boy from the wealthiest part of District 12, a boy with golden hair and eyes as blue as the ocean.

Jake Griffin, Marcus realized suddenly, would have been the type to steal a candle from a storage closet. Just because he could. Just because it reminded him, in some small way, of home. Of the people he loved. _Of her._

But Jake was not the boy who stood from his swivel chair now to clap him firmly on the shoulder, a gesture of thanks.

“I appreciate it, Kane,” he said. “But you don’t have to fight for me.”

“Who said I was fighting _for_ you?” Marcus answered with a smile of his own. “If they come for you, I’m probably next on the list.”

They both laughed then, and Marcus sat on the floor after refusing David’s offer of taking a seat on his bed or in the desk chair. The floor suited him fine: it was carpeted, plush, comfier than most floors he’d sat on in 12. Probably comfier than anything David had sat on, either.

Silence enveloped them for a few minutes, but David shattered it.

“Seriously, though. Please don’t tell anyone about the candle,” he said, a desperate tone creeping into his voice, stringing the syllables together. “They’d probably kick me out.”

Marcus smiled. “I won’t.”

He looked at the clock again. Now it was 20:45, and on a normal night he would have been rereading old chapters of his text and preparing to go to sleep. But this wasn’t a normal night, the chapter’s dictations were still turning his stomach over inside him, and all the deep breaths in the world weren’t making him feel better.

“So, what brought you to the sixth floor?” David asked.

“I got sick of reading,” Marcus said, remembering the panic that had swept over him abruptly, how it nearly immobilized him. All things considered, his statement wasn’t a lie. “I couldn’t concentrate.”

David nodded, as if this were the answer he expected.

“I tried to read the textbook a few days ago, but I couldn’t concentrate either,” he said. “Getting punched in the face doesn’t do wonders for my studying, you know?”

For the first time since he’d entered the room, Marcus felt his chest rumble with a genuine laugh. There was concern, naturally – physical training was going to be awful once he made it there, and he hated to see David in pain – but at least his friend was good at making a joke.

He really needed a good laugh right now.

“I wouldn’t think so,” Marcus said, resting his head against the wooden bedpost and leaning his back against it where it met the floor. The rigidity of the structure dug into his skin, leaving red marks, but he didn’t mind. “Are you all right?”

“Mostly,” David said. “I didn’t get the worst of it.”

It was time, Marcus decided, to ask a question that had been bothering him for a while.

“What do you guys do in physical training?” he asked. “It must be pretty bad if the other guys can justify their bruises through it.”

David shrugged.

“It’s not awful, usually,” he explained. “There are a few days where we have to fight each other, then the officials rank us, and that’s not exactly fun. But it’s a lot of push-ups, strengthening and stuff. A few guys have gotten kicked out because they can’t keep up with the orders, which is why I try to eat well and get to sleep early. It’s not worth risking falling behind.”

He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t that. Had he thought he’d be fighting the other trainees, as if they’d been placed in a games of their own? Some part of him had been convinced he’d have to fight everyone, prove his worth, but he reminded himself this wasn’t, strictly speaking, a competition. While they weren’t a team, they weren’t all enemies.

“What do you do in academic?” David asked, and Marcus sighed. His friend asked him what was wrong, and Marcus assured him it was nothing he’d said.

“It’s just hard to explain,” he elaborated. “And I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

If David could barely stomach reading the textbook, he was going to despise academic. Marcus explained the recitations and the assigned readings, and he blanched as he spun in a circle on the chair.

“That sounds a lot like school,” David remarked, rolling his eyes.

“It’s a little like school, yeah,” Marcus agreed. “Except at school in Twelve, I was never under this kind of pressure.”

“Neither was I,” David said. “In Eleven, we didn’t even go half the time. We were expected to help out on the farms. If you got to go to school for more than a few days a week, you were either a little kid or lucky. My sisters got to go until they were old enough to help, and then we all stayed home. That’s the way things were.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows, a curiosity rushing through him that he’d never experienced before. He and David hadn’t talked about life in their respective districts, and as much as he’d read about Eleven he’d never know what it was like to live there.

“You have sisters?” he asked.

“Yeah,” David said, wistful. “I have five of them. I’m the oldest, but Kira’s only a year younger than me.”

The fondness with which David talked about his family stirred a swell of emotion he’d thought he’d closed off, and his mother’s face flooded his memory as he closed his eyes. The thought of never seeing her again…sometimes it was enough to make him want to curl up into a ball and cry, to withdraw from the training completely and run home into her open arms. He missed her voice, the way she sang and prayed, her cheerfulness and belief that everything always worked out for the best.

“Do you have siblings?” David asked, and Marcus shook his head.

“Just me,” he said. _When you’re from the Seam, kids are just another mouth to feed._

“Damn,” David said, raising his eyebrows. “Didn’t you ever get lonely?”

The pain that had subsided was coursing through him again, throbbing through his veins as it spread, as images of Jake and Abby joined his mother’s.

“No,” he said. “I wasn’t lonely as a kid, because I had my mom. And then I had Jake, once I started school. And…” he trailed off as his lips curled around her name, as the throbbing intensified.

_And I had Abby._

“I can’t get over that,” David said, shaking his head in disbelief. “You knew Jake Griffin. You were friends with Jake Griffin. Man, shouldn’t you be famous? Doing talk shows in the Capitol or something, instead of sitting here in my room?”

“I don’t think it works like that,” he said. “They haven’t even talked to Jake’s family.”

 _They’re more interested in his love life,_ he thought bitterly, knowing he’d never say those words out loud.

“All I’m saying is if you’d stuck it out until Griffin got back from the Victory Tour, you might have been a rich man,” David said. “If you guys were as close as you say you were, he would have helped you out. Probably kept you and your mom from starving.”

“I didn’t want to rely on charity,” Marcus said quickly, icily, venom lacing the last word in his sentence. “Our friendship wasn’t a factor.”

There was another factor he wouldn’t mention, a factor with brown eyes and brown hair, a factor who had given him a pin and kissed his cheek and said goodbye to him with a whispered “may we meet again.” A factor who still haunted his dreams, no matter how he tried to shove her out of his consciousness and bar her in the deepest recesses of his heart. Someday, he told himself, he’d meet someone new and she’d be the last thing on his mind.

But the back of the pin scratched against the skin of his chest as he spoke.

“I came here for my family,” David said abruptly, as if he understood Marcus’ discomfort. “The salary from this job would be enough for them to buy food instead of growing it. I mean, they’d still have to grow for the Capitol, but they wouldn’t have to spend every day on the farm. They could have lives.” He paused for a second, took a deep, rattling breath. “It would be nice if my little sisters could go to school.”

“I came here for my mom,” Marcus said, pushed to confession by David’s admittance. “My dad died this year, and he worked in the mines. It wasn’t a great salary, but it was enough for her to live off of. With him gone, she doesn’t have an income.”

A few minutes passed, and Marcus looked back at the clock again.

21:20. He should be asleep, instead of sitting on the floor in a boy from District 11’s room, swapping stories about what brought them to Peacekeeper training. But there was something therapeutic in this, in opening his heart just enough to let David Miller look inside.

“Well, then,” David said, smirking sadly. “We’re either going to be heroes to our families, or we’re screwed.”

Marcus gave a dry laugh, one devoid of humor. It was true, he realized. They were either going to pass training or they weren’t.

“I guess,” Marcus said, reaching up to unfasten Abby’s pin from his shirt and enclose it in his hand. He didn’t know why he decided to transfer it from his training outfit to his evening clothes. For some reason he was uneasy when it wasn’t on his person, when he didn’t have it in his sight. Some small sliver of his heart insisted it was because the pin was semi-emblematic of her, of her laugh, her smile, the kindness in her eyes, but it was more than that. Those semicircles and stars were more than an etched design in tarnished silver: they were the last mementos he had of District 12. Even weeks after she’d uttered the words, he remembered Abby’s poem.

_In peace, may you leave this shore. In love, may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground. May we meet again._

“You never told me who gave you that,” David said as he watched Marcus take the pin off. “Was it your mom?” he asked, ignoring their earlier conversation when Marcus had clearly stated it had been given to him by a _friend_. They were both so tired now, it was possible he’d forgotten.

“No.”

David scowled.

“Someday, you’re going to tell me who gave you that thing,” he said. “It’s almost as big a mystery as that girl Jake Griffin drew in the arena.”

Marcus’ heart dropped.

Trying not to betray the surge of emotion that roiled in his chest and feigning curious nonchalance, he asked, “What girl?”

“They were re-airing some old Capitol broadcasts the first night we got here,” David said. “I guess Jake Griffin has a thing for some girl. If my sponsors sent me a basket full of art supplies instead of food or weapons, I’d be angry. But you should’ve seen how the crowd went wild. I know the Capitol gets obsessed with their victors, but _damn_. They really love your friend, Kane. I have to say, I’m a little curious. Do you know anything about her?”

_She wants to be a doctor, so she can help everyone in Twelve who can’t afford medical attention. Her name is Abby, and she loves Jake. She gave me this pin, and I’m never going to see her again._

“Yeah, she’s from 12,” Marcus muttered as the pin dug into his palm. He gritted his teeth against the pain, but David didn’t notice.

“Do you know anything else? If you went to the press with this, I bet you could get some money. That could help your mom, too.”

No amount of money was worth betraying Abby’s privacy, and his mom would have said the same. Abby and Jake would go public with their relationship when they were ready, but not before. If they wanted to take things slow, stay out of the public eye as much as they could, he would respect that.

“I don’t really want to talk about it, David,” he said. “Whoever she is, Jake will talk about her himself when he thinks it’s okay.”

Marcus checked the time again, and found it to be much later than he thought it would be.

“I have to go,” he said, jumping up from his seated position and wincing as both of his knees cracked. “Recitations are bad enough on seven hours of sleep.”

David nodded, making his way over to the door and preparing to open it for his friend.

“Tomorrow’s a fighting day for me,” he said. “Now that you mention it, I gotta get some sleep.”

Marcus met his eyes for a second, and they both smiled. Despite the less than savory turn of conversation moments ago, he was happy he’d decided to make the journey two floors up instead of spending his night alone.

“See you tomorrow?” he said for the second time that day, and his friend’s smile widened.

“See you tomorrow. Go get some sleep, Kane.”


	5. Examinations

“Have you been studying?”

David’s question brought him back to reality, ripping him from the peaceful daydream of a world he’d been inhabiting since dinner started. Back to a world where their final examinations for the first component of their training were less than a week away, to a world where he hadn’t seen District 12 in more than five months.

“Yes,” Marcus said testily, knowing fully well he hadn’t studied enough to satisfy the nagging voice in the back of his head that told him he wasn’t putting enough effort into his attempts. But there was a good reason for his procrastination.

Loath as he was to admit it, he was a little homesick.

At times the white walls and polished corridors became overwhelming. Sure, the luxury was nice, welcome even. He wasn’t about to complain about having a hot shower every night and no shortage of food when he awoke in the morning. Not when people his age were starving back home. But there was something about the scent of the pine trees that couldn’t be replicated by even the highest quality of Capitol candles (David managed to get him one after correctly guessing how he felt), something elusive that lived in the pangs of pain inside his soul when his mind drifted to the coal dust and ran through the forests. It weighed on him more and more heavily with each passing day, and the words in his textbook translated to gibberish in his mind, replaced by a longing for a world he wouldn’t see again.

“Are you sure?” David asked playfully, raising his eyebrows while shoving a forkful of the evening’s main course, a well-seasoned fish Marcus knew came from District 5, into his mouth with a lopsided grin. “You don’t sound sure.”

“Well, have you started studying?” Marcus asked, ignoring his question. “How do you study for physical examinations, anyway?”

David shrugged. “They haven’t told us what we’re going to be tested on, so I don’t see a point in worrying about it. The training room hours are extended for the next week, so I’m going to go lift some weights and do some of the old exercises they seemed fond of. That’s all I can do to prepare. I don’t need to tire myself out before whatever they’re going to throw at me.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Marcus said, slightly jealous that his friend didn’t have to spend hours poring over pages. Usually he loved reading, but the textbook was far from gripping material.

“At least we get our mail today,” David remarked.

“What?” Marcus asked, confused. “Where did you hear we were getting mail?”

David raised his dark eyebrows, giving him a bemused stare as he nearly dropped his fork.

“Have you been paying attention to announcements? The guards and instructors have been telling us that if we received any mail over the last few months, it’ll be in our rooms after the evening meal on today.”

Marcus sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. Homesickness was conquering his common sense and his attentiveness, and he didn’t approve of it at all. Unfortunately, his emotions didn’t care whether or not he approved of them: they demanded his attention and energy whether he liked them or not. Recently, he hadn’t.

“Did that candle help?” David asked, concern in his brown gaze.

“A little,” Marcus said, unwilling to lie. It had helped him to smell the replicated scent of the forest, to let his mind wander back home when nature spread for miles outside his room. It just hadn’t helped _enough_. He was going to have to remedy that, he thought, if he wanted to be successful next week. A small, bitter part of him thought it was unfair that so much of his evaluation resided on one test score. But he pushed the thought to the back of his mind and slammed it away: such defiance would do him no good. The system was the system, and he’d pave his way in its confines. No matter how tight they were.

“You might have mail from home,” David said, trying to comfort him. “Do you think that would help you miss it less?”

“It might,” he acknowledged. _But it also might make me miss it more,_ he thought, his heart swelling as he remembered his mother’s warm smile. Now that David mentioned it, he remembered (albeit blurrily) something about their families being sent their addresses to keep in touch with them while they trained. Phone calls weren’t allowed and correspondence during the first portion of training was forbidden, but since they were nearly done apparently the ban had been lifted.

“I hope I have something from my family,” David said. “By now they’ll know if the crops are good this year, and if they aren’t….” he trailed off, and Marcus gave him a look he hoped conveyed reassurance.

“I’m sure they are,” he said, and David smiled a sad smile but didn’t offer anything in return. They ate the rest of their meal in rushed silence, more focused on the possible correspondences awaiting them in their quarters than each other’s presence. Marcus didn’t mind: sometimes, silence suited him perfectly fine.

They loped their way up the stairs, preoccupied with their own thoughts, and said monotone goodbyes while hardly looking each other’s way. There was too much happening, too much swirling around in both of their heads, and it eclipsed such formalities as good-nights and well wishes.

With a churning stomach and jumping heart, Marcus unlocked the door to his room. He found two letters addressed to him on the carpet, as well as a small box of paper with the Capitol letterhead and a few empty envelopes. Clearly, the guards didn’t care if he wrote back to whomever had taken the time to inquire about his well-being.

As he picked up the letters and moved to sit down in his desk, he wondered who besides his mother would have taken the time to write to him. Who even had his address? Unable to take the suspense, he looked at the return address on the second envelope (the first one was from a Ms. Vera Kane, as he suspected) and his heart nearly stopped inside his constricting chest.

It was from Abigail Walters.

Lost in a churning sea of his own conflicting emotions, he chose to open her letter first.

_Dear Marcus,_

_You’ll have to forgive me for not writing to you sooner, but I wasn’t able to convince your mother to give me your address until a few days ago. Well, technically I didn’t convince her of anything. I went over to your house and found the document with your address on your kitchen table, and decided to write to you. Apparently she thinks only direct family members are supposed to have contact with the trainees? If this letter is returned to me by the Capitol post, I’ll assume she’s right._

Marcus smiled, imagining Abby hastily scribbling his address on a makeshift notepad and hoping his mother didn't catch her. Some things would never change no matter his distance from home, and her tenacity was one of them.

            Simultaneously filled with longing and sadness, he kept reading.

_If you are reading this, and you accept my apology, then the first thing I want to say is that I hope you’re doing well. I know you’re succeeding in your training, because you haven’t come home. I’m not surprised – the Marcus Kane I know could do anything he put his mind to – and I’m happy for you. Maybe someday when you get your new job, Jake and I could come visit you._

_Oh, no,_ he thought, the sinking feeling in his stomach returning with a passion. Since Jake was a victor, he and Abby would be able to travel wherever they wished as long as the Capitol approved it. The thought of them visiting him left a bitter taste in his mouth despite their years of friendship, and he had to look away from the lines of text written in Abby’s precise hand.

           Knowing she and Jake were together was one thing, but seeing it, witnessing it, was another subject entirely. A sigh pushed its way past his pursed lips. His chest relaxed, but he didn't.

_Things are much the same here as they ever were. The mines are still dangerous, and I treated a man with multiple broken bones yesterday who was stuck in a collapse. He should be all right, but I can’t help thinking that if I were allowed to use more medicine than what the Capitol allows I could better help him. Why do they restrict that? In my opinion, it’s an idiotic policy._

A laugh, then, a small shake of his head. The mine collapse was a tragedy, but of _course_ she'd defy the Capitol for restricting the quantity of medication she could administer to her patients. She'd griped about it when she began assisting 12’s healer, and she griped about it now. _Only Abby_ , he thought with a wan smile, and continued absorbing her words.

_Jake’s been back from the tour for a few months, and everything’s been wonderful. He misses you, too. I have to thank you for telling me how he felt all those months ago – without you, I don’t know if we would have been able to talk to each other about our feelings._

_I leave for school in District 5 next week. Wish me luck! I’m keeping your address with me so I can still write to you when I’m there._

_May we meet again,_

_Abby_

           

Blinking back tears as he looked toward the flickering florescent lights on his ceiling, Marcus dropped the letter to the smooth surface of his desk.

She’d used the last line of the poem. Of course she would. Because Abby felt there was a chance they’d see each other again. That even though he was thousands of miles from home, she had faith they’d find each other again. That they could resume their friendship where it left off. She could never know. And if she was never to know, he couldn’t respond to her. After all, what could he say? _You and Jake can visit me anytime you want?_ Could he rip out his own heart to keep hers from feeling pain?

But to allow them into his life would only delay that temporarily, could only protect her for so long. It wasn’t a cure. The only cure was to keep moving forward with his life, and hope she did the same without him.

Friends grew apart, certainly. She’d understand that. She had no shortage of them. And now she had Jake, too. His lack of response might not even upset her, he reasoned. Not if she thought he’d never received her correspondence. That way, he could still respond to the other letter he’d received from his mother, which was multiple variations on the sentiments ‘I hope you’re doing well’ and ‘I love you very much’.

Vera didn’t mention anything about herself, her health, whether or not she struggled with money or how she fared during 12’s harsh winter. Of course not. By the time he reached the end of her letter tears flowed down his face and blurred the ink, rendering her words unreadable. 

As he fumbled with the ink pen, beginning his response, his thoughts lingered with the other person from home who’d taken the time to send him a letter. He couldn’t give her anything in return. His heart ached to reassure her he was all right, to send her multiple papers asking her what she expected from medical training, if she was nervous, congratulating her again on the accomplishment of being the only girl from 12 to be accepted.

But it was better, he told himself, if he didn’t. She’d be happy with Jake, he’d be happy with his job (provided he passed, he thought with a sidelong glace at the textbook he’d been avoiding) and they’d follow separate roads for the rest of their lives. Not because that was what he wanted, but because it was the way things had to be.

As his trembling fingers formed words to the woman who raised him, his head struggled with the ones he’d never send. He finished the letter to her with an ‘I love you’ and a shaky smile, sealing the paper inside one of the Capitol’s expensive silver-lined envelopes. He wondered how long it would take to reach her. _She’ll probably have it before examinations start,_ he thought, musing on how quickly items from the Capitol were distributed to the districts.

He snatched another sheet of paper from the stack he’d been given, intending to release the flurry of thoughts that formed a hurricane in his head. He wrote without thinking, without feeling, letting his words pour straight from his brain to the paper without filtering them first.

_Dear Abby,_

_You don’t have to apologize for not writing, we were only allowed to look at our mail this week. Nonetheless, if you insist on apologizing, I accept. But you have nothing to be sorry for. I’m just happy to hear from you._

_I’m doing quite well. At this point, I think everyone who’s here can pass training. In theory. We still have to score high enough on the tests, but the number now is smaller than it was before. Examinations are next week, and I should have started studying by now, but I haven’t. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Medical books can’t be much better._

_That mine collapse sounds awful. I hope no one I knew was involved. As always, I’m sure the miner and his family are grateful to you for what you did to help him. Although if my studies have taught me anything, Capitol laws aren’t to be messed with, Abby. You could be seriously punished if you infringe on them._

_I knew you and Jake would be happy together, and I’ve heard about how much the Capitol adores you two. Did you know I saw a broadcast the first night I was here about you? Most of it was about him, but you were included. They do love you. If I end up getting a job, you and Jake will be the first to know (besides my mom, of course)._

_Good luck in medical school. I know you’ll do fantastically at it – after all, you’ve been studying for a long time. Feel free to keep writing to me, and send me your new address, too._

_May we meet again,_

_Marcus_

He stared at his own messy handwriting for a long moment, feeling silence gather him in its embrace. All around him his peers were writing back to mothers, girlfriends, boyfriends, and siblings. Yet one of the only people he wanted to talk to was the one person who could never again hear his words. Not if he wanted her to be happy.

So he shoved the letter in a drawer and slammed it closed, unwilling to burn it with David’s pine-scented candle, and got up from his desk to flop onto his bed with an exhausted groan. His heart wouldn’t stop racing, and his mouth felt dry. Going to David wouldn’t help. Walking around in the halls wouldn’t help. Rereading her letter sure as hell wouldn’t help.

So he stared at his ceiling until the pounding stopped, until his brain decided to relinquish its iron grasp on his racing emotions. Then he made his way back to his desk, placed her letter gently in the drawer with his response, and turned his textbook open to the first chapter.

He fell asleep that night with the text in his head, her words in his heart, and images of the forest flickering behind his eyelids.

 

***

_What are the lines of the Peacekeeper’s Code?_

Marcus rubbed his eyes, looking at the clock and listening to the scratching of pencils as they moved around him. Not for the first time, he wished he’d spent more of the last week reviewing the first chapter of the book and less on the more recent sections they’d covered. He’d so assumed the initial readings wouldn’t be as emphasized in the examination. His assumption, thus far, had been incorrect.

The room in which he was taking his examination wasn’t his usual classroom, either, which ended up distracting him more than he thought it would. This room had a high ceiling and white walls, lined with ornate sculptures on pedestals and expensive wooden floors. The left side of the room held a floor to ceiling window, and Marcus could see the buildings of the city if he raised his eyes from the paper on his desk.

He locked eyes with another trainee across the room, a boy he’d learned had come from District 1. In his eyes he recognized the same lost, disoriented stare he was certain his own gaze held, and gave him a slight nod in reassurance. _At this point, we can all make it._

The boy made no move to comfort Marcus in return, and he refocused his attention to the task at hand. The words played a dreadful game of hide-and-seek inside his subconscious, and he wanted nothing more than to pull back a curtain or lift a tablecloth and yell ‘there you are!’

Finally, after five minutes of abject terror and massaging his temples, they revealed themselves to him.

 

_Under the benevolent rule of President Snow,_

_I swear to uphold the Laws of Panem_

_To preserve the peace in the Districts at all costs_

_And to honor those who have given their lives for our cause._

He sighed with relief, realizing this question was probably essential to passing the exam as a whole. The Code was something he should have spent more time in studying, but alas, it had slipped through the cracks.

Hopefully the rest of the test wouldn’t, he thought with chagrin.

An hour and a sore right hand later, all was complete. He handed his completed booklet to the guard at the front of the room and was directed to return to his room for further instruction, which sounded equal parts terrifying and exciting, given the result was a favorable one. There was little doubt in his mind that he’d done enough to pass, but exhaustion gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. He hoped he’d be awake when those instructions came.

As it turned out, sleep wouldn’t have been an option. When he reached his floor, a bruised and visibly exhausted David Miller waited for him outside his door.

“I passed!” he exclaimed, drawing his friend forward in a tight embrace. “I just found out.”

Marcus grinned, clapping him soundly on the back and ignoring the trepidation that turned his stomach over inside his shaking body. David gave a small wince, and Marcus apologized.

“It’s fine,” he said, unable to dispel the grin that overtook more and more of his facial features. “I barely even feel the pain now.”

While he wasn’t sure what the ‘instructions’ for him would be, he decided allowing David to wait with him wouldn’t break any rules. After all, he thought as he looked down the hallway and glimpsed various boys in states of agitation and celebration, it wasn’t as if they’d be adding to the chaos.

He opened the door and motioned for David to enter his quarters, and the boy slid down onto his floor almost immediately.

“I didn’t think I’d make it,” he said. Marcus scowled slightly, sitting down on the edge of his bed.

“Why?” he asked. David shrugged.

“A lot of them were bigger than me,” he said simply, closing his eyes. His cheeks puffed as he blew out a long exhale. “But I didn’t have to fight anyone. Instead we just had to do some of the exercises they showed us in training. Anything physical, we used projections for.”

David kept talking, but Marcus found himself unable to listen over his own racing thoughts. Had he been overconfident in his abilities to respond to their questions? He’d been so certain when he turned in the booklet, but now…

Now, if he hadn’t done as well as he thought he had, everything would be undone. He’d go back to 12, a failure, and live off a miner’s wages for the rest of his life. His mother would suffer, although she wouldn’t show it. He’d live the rest of his life in the Seam. Abby and Jake would support him, as they always did, and he’d push them away because it was the right thing to do.

If he’d eaten any of the Capitol’s rich foods that day, he knew now they would have ended up in the ornate wastebasket beside his bed. Thankfully, he’d abstained.

“Kane?” David asked with a note of concern, and Marcus realized he hadn’t heard a single word his friend had said for the past few minutes.

“I’m sorry,” Marcus said, unable to meet David’s eyes. “I’m just…”

“You’re nervous,” David finished, nodding. “I get it. I really shouldn’t be talking about this when you haven’t gotten your results yet.”

Marcus shook his head. “No, it’s fine. You’re excited.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t be this excited around you. I know how torturous the wait was.”

“How long did you have to wait?” Marcus asked, remembering that David had taken his examination earlier in the morning. It was early evening now, and if he’d just found out…

“A couple of hours,” he answered. “I knew earlier, but you were taking the test, so I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know how it would work with academic, though. That might go faster.”

Marcus cringed. In all likelihood, it would go _slower_. All those pages to go through, answers to filter and grade…it could be a day before he heard whether or not he passed. Abby’s words drifted back to him suddenly, and he couldn’t shut his brain off before they resurfaced.

_The Marcus Kane I know could do anything he put his mind to._

He’d been avoiding wearing her pin, trying to minimize the role she played in his life. The letter he wrote to her still sat in his desk’s lower drawer, collecting dust in the dark. Dwelling on her would do him no good, and he tried to corner her and force her out of his life wherever and whenever he could. Not out of hatred or bitterness, but out of necessity.

She was happy, he told himself. He needed to be happy, too.

But now, he needed the little circular disk that he hadn’t touched for close to a month. He needed to feel the cool metal against his skin. He needed her encouragement, her faith in him.

So he got up, opened the drawer, and after fumbling around for a few moments he found what he was looking for. Avoiding David’s curious stare, he fastened the pin to his lapel and made his way back to his bed, resuming his earlier position as his nerves stirred inside his stomach and dripped sweat down his brow.

“I wondered if you were gonna wear that,” David said with a tiny smirk. “I was surprised when you didn’t wear it to the exam.”

“Why? I haven’t worn it for a month,” Marcus stated, trying to keep his voice even. Damn David and his observations.

“I don’t know, it seemed pretty important to you when I asked about it,” David said, the atmosphere in the room shifting from amiable to tense in mere seconds. “You never told me who gave it to you.”

Marcus sighed, dropping his head to his hands. Nothing like a conversation about Abby to get his mind off examination result-related stress. He almost would have preferred to keep ruminating on his final score.

“David, I’ve said that isn’t important.”

“The look on your face when you put that thing on says otherwise,” David remarked. “Every time you touch it, you look like…I don’t know, man. You look like it burned you.”

“That’s absurd."

“I’ll make you a deal,” David said, eyes glistening with glee. “We pass training, at the end of all this, and you tell me who gave you the pin.”

Peering through his fingers, Marcus groaned.

“Deal,” he said, wanting to end the conversation as soon as he possibly could. “If we both make it through this, I’ll tell you who she is.”

“Oh, so it’s a ‘she’?” David said, a shit-eating grin creeping across his face.

“Stop,” Marcus said, regretting his choice as soon the word slipped past his lips. He knew he’d be chiding himself about this for the next few days…provided he passed, of course.

“So I know it’s a girl, and she was your friend,” David said. “If you weren’t the only recruit from 12, I could have had this figured out by now.”

In spite of everything, Marcus had to laugh.

“What makes you think anyone would have known who she is?”

“12 isn’t that big,” David said. “You all know each other.”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly popular,” Marcus retorted. Of course, just because he wasn’t popular didn’t mean Jake and Abby weren’t, and another recruit from 12 probably would have been able to answer David’s question. For the first time since training started, Marcus was actually thankful he was the only trainee from his home district.

David wasn’t likely to handle the fact that the girl was Abigail Walters, the Capitol’s _other_ new obsession, very well. He could hear his friend’s incredulous musings now: ‘man, why aren’t they obsessed with _you_?’

“Shocking,” David deadpanned. “Kane, unpopular? I _never_ would have guessed.”

Marcus threw a pillow at him, hitting him in the head, and David whipped it back but missed his friend completely. They both laughed.

“Shut up,” Marcus said, but there was no venom behind his words. Despite the stress of the conversation and deflation of his ego, Marcus was thankful it happened. At least his mind was off of…

_Shit._

Since they’d been talking, a small envelope had materialized underneath his door, slid into his room by using the gap between the door and the ground. All laughing abruptly ceased, and David looked at his friend with wide eyes.

“I can step out, if you want.”

Marcus’ heart was in danger of both overstimulating and stopping as he stared at that little sealed envelope, sliding off his bed and landing on the ground with a thump. He didn’t even feel the impact. _I didn’t know we received our results in envelopes._ He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t that. And certainly not so soon.

“You don’t have to,” he said, and David looked at him skeptically.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m going to end up telling you anyway,” Marcus said. “You might as well find out now.”

“Up to you,” David said, but Marcus was already reaching down to pick the results up off the floor.

It had been a long time since Marcus Kane said a prayer. His mother prayed all the time for various things: health of the people she loved, safety for those in the mines, prosperity for the people of District 12. Marcus found the results intangible, and as he grew older he grew out of saying nightly prayers. But something now made him murmur a few phrases to the Almighty in his head, wondering if his mother’s God would abandon him in such a time of need.

He guessed he’d find out.

Trembling like a leaf in 12’s fall winds, he slipped his finger underneath the flap of the envelope and pried it open.

“Good luck,” David said, and Marcus gave him a nod.

Then he pulled the paper from its covering, willing to accept whatever fate had in store for him.

 

_Marcus Kane,_

_Congratulations! You have successfully completed the first part of your training. Report to the dining hall at 0700 tomorrow to begin the second phase._

_Regards,_

_President Snow_

Through eyes filling with tears and lungs that could barely take in the air around him, Marcus briefly wondered how three small sentences that carried the scent of roses could have such a profound impact on his life.

Then the moment passed, and David was hugging him, and they were both collapsing to the ground with unfettered joy they’d been holding inside until it was safe to let it escape. They laughed, they cried, they congratulated each other. And for the first time in a long time, with a letter in his hand and his friend by his side, Marcus thought everything might turn out for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are gifts for the writer's soul. ;)


	6. Induction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note – this chapter jumps forward several months, to the night after Marcus has finished physical training and Miller has finished academic.

_I can’t believe it,_ Marcus thought, reading and rereading the letter that had been slipped underneath his door. His head still pounded from leftover stress and he was reasonably certain a few of his fingers were broken, but none of that mattered now.

If this letter was to be believed, he, Marcus Kane of District 12, was going to become a Peacekeeper. After months of studying, countless hours spent in training rooms and sweating through screaming muscles and combatting exhaustion with clusters of bulky boys, it was really happening.

He was going to be a Peacekeeper. The boy from the Seam had transformed, changed into a better version of himself. A version of himself he’d always been meant to be, a version that would make his mother proud and keep her safe.

 _I’m going to be a Peacekeeper,_ he thought, _I’m really going to be a Peacekeeper,_ and he let out a loud cheer.

An insistent knock sounded on his door, and he knew who it had to be.

“Miller,” he said with a smile, opening his door. If his friend’s grin was anything to go by, he wasn’t the only one who had passed the final portion of his training. “Do you have good news?”

“The best,” Miller said. “We’re Peacekeepers, Kane. Both of us.”

They hugged briefly, but tightly, and Miller stepped into Marcus’ room without an invitation. After many months of studying and spending time together, invitations were no longer a necessity.

“It’s too bad we can’t do anything to celebrate,” Miller said, and Marcus gave a small hum of agreement. Their night of good news also fell on the night of a mandatory program, and no one but the Capitol itself knew how long it would last. It would have been nice to walk around the city (they were finally allowed out of the building for a few hours after passing training), but it had been made clear to them that if they missed the program, their status could be revoked. The last thing Marcus wanted to do was lose this dream, especially now that it was in his hands. He knew Miller felt the same.

“Do you think we’d have enough time to explore after the program’s done?” Marcus asked. “It can’t last all night.”

“We could try,” Miller said, but the look on his face betrayed his lack of conviction. “But we have to get our stuff cleaned out of our rooms, too. That might not be a problem for you, but I have a few candles I need to…dispose of.”

After his last gift of a forest-scented candle, Marcus hadn’t asked Miller for more of them. While smelling the scent of home had helped ease his homesickness slightly, it hadn’t been enough for him to justify breaking the rules. If Miller could go against regulations with a clear conscience, that was fine. Marcus couldn’t.

But that didn’t mean there weren’t things he needed to clear out of his room, he realized as his brain landed on letters from his mother and Abby (she’d continued to send updates on her medical training, even though he hadn’t responded to her last correspondence) and the tarnished silver pin that now spent more time on the inside of the drawer than on his lapel. Those were things worth keeping.

He checked the clock. The broadcast was due to start in less than five minutes, and he didn’t want to try explaining the letters to Miller if he started cleaning his room. His friend only knew he’d been in correspondence with his mother back in 12, but he’d left Abby out of the conversation. Questions about Abigail Walters still, even after a little less than a year without seeing her, had an uncanny way of making the hair stand up on the nape of his neck and ramming his back into a straight, stiffened line.

The broadcast, then, was an unwelcome surprise.

Apparently the Capitol had managed to snag some old footage from 12 that made it clear who “the girl in the sketchbook” was, and overly-enthusiastic Ceasar Flickerman was more than eager to share the news with his millions of viewers across Panem. Every word from his purple-lipsticked mouth felt like a pinprick of poison to Marcus, who hadn’t been able to form a coherent thought since the program’s main subject became apparent.

“Why was this mandatory?” Marcus asked, heart throbbing in his chest. There were better questions to ask. For example, why was the room so blurry, all of a sudden? Why was there a roaring in his ears? Why were his lungs refusing to take in the oxygen around him?

He had to strain to hear Miller’s response.

“He’s the first victor from Twelve, and he took the time to paint her in the arena,” Miller said questioningly, as if wondering why Marcus would have a problem with the program’s content. He didn’t look away from the screen. “People were curious about her. Probably a lot of them, especially here. So they made it mandatory.”

“But why force the districts to watch?” Marcus continued. “They don’t gain anything from this. They don’t care.”

Miller looked at him again, a small scowl drawing his dark eyebrows toward each other. “You’d be surprised,” he said. “I’m guessing since he’s from Twelve, the higher-numbered districts actually might care this year. Weren’t you wondering who she was? Or did you already know?”

He chose to ignore those questions, to pretend he hadn’t heard them over the din of the telecast. The brightly-clothed announcers weren’t confirming anything Marcus didn’t already know, and yet he felt as though he were standing in the forest again, listening to Abigail Walters confess her love for someone else. The pads of his fingers tingled as he recalled the chill in the air, and his cheeks flushed as he remembered the kiss she’d pressed to one of them.

_Stay safe, Marcus._

“How someone so beautiful came from _there_ , I’ll never understand,” Ceasar said with his catlike grin. “She’s truly worthy of our victor, don’t you think?”

The other announcer smiled and gave his agreement, although Marcus detected a tinge of pity in his expression. It was all he could do not to vomit. Abby didn’t have to live up to some immeasurable, garish Capitol standard to be happy with Jake, at least not before the Games. But now she was being analyzed on national television, with two morons commenting on whether or not she was _worthy_ of their beloved Jake Griffin. Were they checking off boxes in their heads, he wondered, to see if she was acceptable for him? If they’d have to find someone else for Jake, because a girl from Twelve couldn’t be camera-ready enough to please the throngs of Capitol citizens?

“If she and Jake choose to live here, they’d be treated like royalty,” one of them said, and Marcus couldn’t stop himself from snorting. _Hardly likely._ While Jake was a victor, he was and would always be from the lowest of the districts. They’d be obsessed with him until they had a new toy, a brand new winner to drag out and shove in front of the spotlight for a year until the whole damn cycle repeated itself.

But now Abby was caught up in that riptide. Nothing would be private for her now – not her time in school, the location of her house, the names of her family members. Not that that information hadn’t belonged to the Capitol before, but they hadn’t been interested enough in her to claim it. Now, no matter where they were or what they did, the blinding lights of the Capitol’s spotlight would follow them. Now, she and Jake were theirs.

“She’s hot, isn’t she?” Miller observed, oblivious to Marcus’ roiling inner turmoil. “Griffin’s a lucky guy.”

 _Griffin’s a lucky guy,_ his brain repeated maliciously, mocking him, taunting him, and something inside Marcus Kane came undone. The announcers hadn’t been enough to push him over the edge (although with every word out of their mouths, he trudged a little closer), but something in the way Miller made his assessment forced him to get up from his seat, mutter a gruff “I’m going to get some air” and exit the room without a further explanation. Damn the broadcast. He’d seen enough.

Marcus was out the door of the building before he registered the change in his surroundings, and the balmy, smog-laden air hit him like a slap in the face. For a moment he paused, glancing around for building security or instructors, anyone who could revoke his passage because he wasn’t in his room watching the broadcast, but they were nowhere to be found.

 _Good,_ he thought over the roaring of his pulse. He wanted to be alone. Although ‘alone’ was relative, on the busy streets: he was surrounded by powdered faces and neon-colored outfits that pushed past him as they hurried to arrive at some unfathomable, luxurious destination. Mandatory, he thought with shocked chagrin, must only apply to the Districts. The sheer quantity of pedestrians made him think the broadcast had to have drawn to a close. In the Capitol, this many people never would have been outside their homes with a mandatory viewing on air.

But in many ways, he still had his solitude. To these people, he was no more than a bug on the sidewalk; unimpressive, dull, more than likely an annoyance. His presence was nothing to them, and it was in that fact that he uncovered relief. Isolation was what he needed right now, even if he found it in a crowd of people.

He allowed himself to get swept up in the current of shuffling bodies, let them pull him in various directions past shimmering golden statues that looked orange in the sunset, buildings made of shining marble, and fountains that spewed water as blue as the sky that dimmed with the growing darkness overhead. Every sight seemed less than real, like something his imagination had manufactured to take his mind off of her, and as he tripped and stumbled in his path he found the scrapes and bruises didn’t hurt.

He took a seat on the edge of a silver bench that overlooked a park, and watched as children rolled in the impossibly green grass and families smiled at each other over delicacies they’d packed for a picnic. There was no pain here, he thought, no hatred.

Which made him feel even _more_ out of place, he reflected with a sigh.

Abby’s copper-colored eyes, her smile that outshone the sunset – it all came crashing back to him in a glorious wave that made his heart constrict in his chest. This place, in all its decadence and surgically-altered splendor, wasn’t where she and Jake belonged. They wouldn’t be happy here.

Abby needed to help people – ever since he’d known her, that was all she wanted to do – and the Capitol was more concerned with appearances than aid. Here, her abilities would be limited. If the broadcast had shown him anything besides footage of their reunion, it had shown him that the Capitol expected Abigail Walters to smile for the cameras, talk about her love for Jake, and wave to crowds of admirers who ate up their love story like the tiny chocolates they kept on their pillows at night.

But in Twelve, there was more of an opportunity for her to put her newly-acquired abilities to good use. People certainly needed her there. And Jake was uncomfortable with the spotlight, although he’d never show it. He was a talented actor, Marcus gave him that. His discomfort only shone through his persona - the character of “Victor Jake Griffin” - in the tension in his muscles, the anxiety Marcus saw simmering behind his collected gaze as he answered interviewer’s questions.

Soon, Abby would be accompanying him on those excursions. She’d be answering all manners of invasive inquiries about her life, and no matter how much she despised it Marcus knew she’d go through with it. The compensation for the programs would more than help her family and others suffering in Twelve, so she’d endure the discomfort.

With a start he realized Jake never truly stepped outside the arena: instead, unknowingly, he’d brought Abby in. Their battles were only beginning, and he, as an employee of the Capitol itself, could do nothing to help them. He could do nothing to help her.

His stomach dropped and his head fell to his hands. He no longer felt like seeing the artificial beauty of the land around him, and for the first time in a very, very, very long while he allowed himself to feel the pain of homesickness. No sky-high buildings could measure up to the purity of the trees in Twelve, the untainted glory of nature. The air here held little of the sweetness he inhaled in Twelve’s pollution-free atmosphere. With his world shifting and crumbling around him, Marcus Kane could form only one coherent thought: _I want to go home._

But home, at its core, wasn’t a place. Certainly it was the four walls and a roof that held his mother and most of his belongings, but it was more precisely a _time_. ‘Home’ was a year and a half ago, before Jake had been selected. ‘Home’ was running through the trees with his two best friends, it was shining a flashlight through layers of dust during the early hours of the morning to read a book Abby bought for him on his birthday, it was the sound of Jake’s hearty laugh intermixing with Abby’s (when he was younger, he’d innocently thought her laugh sounded like sleigh bells).

His home was gone, now, he concluded as his eyes filled with tears. It was gone, and it was the only place he wanted to live.

A hand on his shoulder made his blood run cold. Ready to accept his fate he looked up, shocked to find David Miller looking down at him.

“How…” Marcus started, unable to finish his sentence on a single attempt. He tried again. “How did you…?”

Miller relinquished his grip, moving to sit next to him on the bench. In the fading light his muscled form appeared almost nothing more than a shadow, a silhouette against the pink sky.

“What was that about?” he asked, and Marcus cringed as he looked away.

“I needed some air,” he said weakly.

“Yeah, okay,” Miller muttered, sarcasm saturating his words. “You needed the air a mile and a half from the training center? That was the _only_ air that could help?”

Marcus had nothing to say in response, so he didn’t open his mouth. They sat in silence for a while, watching the sun drop below the horizon and citizens pack up their belongings to return to their homes.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Miller asked softly, and Marcus felt every hair on his body stand on end as his blood turned to ice in his veins.

“What do you mean?” he asked, throat too tight, voice too high.

“The girl on the show. Abigail Winters –“

“Walters,” Marcus corrected him on instinct.

“Okay, _Walters_. Abigail Walters. She’s the one who gave you the pin, isn’t she? The one you always used to wear?”

Marcus was two heartbeats away from getting up and leaving David Miller behind again, just to avoid talking about her. Today had taken his emotions and tied them to the whipping post, and the pain kept blossoming.

“You said if we both passed training, you’d tell me who gave it to you,” Miller said, a forcefulness creeping into his tone. Marcus groaned internally. He’d been foolish to think Miller would let such a pact go unresolved. “Well, we passed, Kane. Am I right? Was it her?”

“Why do you think it was her?” Marcus asked, answering his question with one of his own.

“The second that broadcast started, you weren’t yourself,” Miller answered, and he felt blood rising to his cheeks. Would Abby ever stop having that effect on him?

“The look on your face,” Miller continued as they made eye contact. “It was like you were in pain.”

He’d dodged this conversation in every way possible since they’d become friends. He’d crept past it, jumped over it, crawled beneath it, and hidden from it. And now, now that he’d finally tried to put the past behind him, it’d showed up with a pin in hand and a question from David Miller.

“You’re right,” Marcus said, barely whispering as images of Abby came bursting through the floodgates he’d put up in his mind, feeble attempts to keep her out of his thoughts. “She gave me the pin, Miller, okay? Do we have to keep talking about her?”

“You’re in love with her,” Miller said, and the whole world went silent, stopped turning, and exploded.

“What?” Marcus asked over the ringing in his ears.

“You’re in love with her,” Miller repeated, though to Marcus he sounded as if he were saying those words from the end of a long tunnel. Faint, far off. _You’re in love with her. You’re still in love with her._

“It makes sense,” Miller continued, as Marcus seriously considered getting up and bolting for the training center. “Why you stopped wearing the pin. Why you acted weird when I asked who your second letter was from. Why you left during the broadcast. You’re in love with Abigail Winters, and she’s in love with Jake Griffin, and you had to watch while the Capitol became obsessed with them both.”

“Walters,” Marcus breathed as the world spun rapidly around him. “Her name is Abby _Walters_.”

He didn’t confirm Miller’s assumption, didn’t offer validation. He didn’t need to. Everything Miller needed to know was written in the despair in his eyes, nestled in a year’s worth of reactions and words left unspoken.

“How long were you guys friends?” he asked.

“Jake and I were friends for twelve years. Abby…” he counted back years in his head, reliving memories that went with each one. “Seven or eight.”

“Whoa,” Miller said. “No wonder her gift was so expensive.”

“Does Griffin know?” Miller asked after a moment, quieter. Marcus noticed the gentleness in his voice, the pity that made his inquiry worth a response.

“No,” Marcus said over an unexpected lump in his throat. “And you can’t tell anyone. Please.”

“Hey,” Miller said firmly, placing a hand squarely on Marcus’ back. The contact brought his gaze up from the ground, and he looked at his friend for the first time since the word ‘love’ entered the conversation. “I’m not going to tell anyone. This is between you, her, and him.”

“Thank you,” Marcus croaked, hoping his blurred vision was a byproduct of exhaustion and not tears.

“I don’t blame you, though,” Miller said wistfully, almost jokingly. “She’s gorgeous. Do you know if she…”

He knew where the sentence was going, and made it his mission to stop it before it arrived.

“She loves Jake,” Marcus said, a white-hot flash of nausea ripping through him and leaving him dizzy as he droned the lines he'd repeated to himself all too often. “She _only_ loves Jake. They’re good for each other. He makes her happy, and that’s all that matters.”

“I was going to ask if she had a sister, but okay,” Miller said, flashing his white teeth against the Capitol nightfall. The darkness was lifted by streetlights that shone around them, and despite the tightness in his chest he had to laugh.

“You’re awful,” Marcus said, and Miller’s smile grew.

“But I got you to laugh, didn’t I?”

He nodded, suddenly thankful for his friend’s presence. If anyone beside himself were to know about his feelings for Abby, Miller was an ideal candidate.

“You’re going to get over her,” Miller said. “Once we’re Peacekeepers, you’ll find someone better.”

“You're right,” Marcus said, forcing his mouth into something he hoped resembled a smile. “You’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAND THAT'S A WRAP ON PART ONE! :D Kudos and comments are always appreciated. 
> 
> If you liked this first part, I guarantee you'll enjoy the second even more. I swear it on my love for Abby Griffin (and that's how you know it's real).


	7. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PART TWO! :D 
> 
> Please note that we're now jumping ahead to when Marcus and Abby are at their current ages in canon, placing Marcus at 42 and Abby at 40. That's all. I hope you guys enjoy!

_**24 years later** _

 

The phone rang, and Marcus Kane considered not answering it.

As Head Peacekeeper of District 7, he had enough on his mind without the intrusion of the contraption’s metallic ring. Production was down for the year as a result of a lack of rainfall, and the people were antsy, uncertain.

Uncertainty, he’d come to understand, led to anger. Anger led to rebellion. And his sole job, his only purpose in life, was to quell rebellion before it could become dangerous. Sometimes the methods for halting rebellion were less than satisfactory, less than _moral_ , but the end result was always the same.

Whatever rage had been bubbling beneath the district’s surface cooled, and life proceeded as it always had.

The Capitol gave him orders, and he followed them. No matter if they kept him up at night, he followed them. No matter if they haunted his dreams, he followed them.

He rose from his leather chair, a gift from Snow’s Head Peacekeeper. Charles Pike appreciated his years of service, and thought to show that appreciation through an elaborate gift rather than a visit in-person. Marcus didn’t mind. He used the chair every day as he worked in his study: a visit from Pike would have faded to nothingness in his memory only weeks after he boarded a train to return to the Capitol.

He and Pike weren’t friends, but the majority of orders filtered through him from Snow. Years of being given orders and carrying them out to the letter evolved into a kind of companionship, if not a camaraderie. As he crossed the candlelit room (his childhood friend David Miller loved them, and they held a place of nostalgic value in Marcus’ heart) and nearly slipped on the hardwood floors, he prepared himself for another conversation with Snow’s confidant on the districts’ compliance.

 _I’ve met my responsibilities,_ he thought to himself, rehearsing the conversation he knew he’d soon be having while shoving the relevant memories back to the darkest depths of his mind. _The threats are neutralized. Everything is calm here, now._

It took him almost ten seconds to find the resolve necessary to cross the room and close his fingers around the lukewarm metal. He felt it vibrate with each shrill screech, as if it screamed for him to answer its request.

Again, he considered letting it go. The last beams of sunlight barely filtered through the trees outside his windows, flecking the dark leaves with spots of bright green, and it would soon be time for him to shower and retire for the evening. A conversation with Pike would start gears turning in his mind that wouldn’t stop moving until morning light, and the next day would see him a sluggish, sleep-deprived mess.

Two more rings, and the transmission would halt.

The phone was conditioned to ring only ten times, crafted with the assumption that by ten rings the person on the receiving end would either be able to answer the call or had no interest in doing so.

One more ring, and the transmission would halt.

Marcus fell into the latter category as he sighed, lifting the device from its holding port on the wall.

“Hello?” he said, a weariness in his greeting that surprised even him. Perhaps Pike would take pity on him and save their discussion for another time. It was worth hoping. _It’s been a long day, Charles,_ he nearly said, but restrained himself. Charles Pike didn’t care how exhausted he was. Charles Pike wanted results.

“Marcus?” a voice asked, high-pitched and tense, and Marcus nearly dropped the phone.

“ _Miller_?”

It had been years since he'd last spoken to David Miller. They’d tried to keep in contact after commencement, after receiving their respective assignments, but Miller’s work was in his home district while Marcus was sent to 7 right away. Distance did what it usually did – it separated people, it promoted silence – and after a few years of infrequent letters, their communications halted. There was no bad blood on either side of the former friendship. Life, it seemed, had simply gotten in the way.

But the urgency in Miller’s voice told Marcus this wasn’t a social call, that they wouldn’t be exchanging pleasantries for old times’ sake. Something was wrong. Had there been an uprising in 11? He hadn’t heard anything to that effect, but sometimes the Capitol only told him what he needed to know. It was safer for all of them that way, he thought.

“Miller…I don’t…” Marcus stammered, his lips stuttering around an apology and a question. _I’m sorry for losing contact with you. What’s happening? Are you all right?_

“Have you been watching the news?” his old friend asked, and Marcus thought he heard laughter in the background of the call. Did Miller have a wife now? Children? Could they all have been friends if he hadn’t been so focused on making his way up the Peacekeeper ranks? For that matter, could he have had a family himself if his sole motivation hadn’t been proving himself to the rest of his comrades, to the men from higher districts who scoffed at his place of origin?

Regret pulsed through him, both numbing and electrifying every inch of his skin, and he had a hard time concentrating on the question at hand.

“Miller, I…” he started on an apology again, but the man on the other end of the phone wouldn’t allow him to finish the sentence. There was no time, it seemed, to rectify old wrongs.

“Marcus, are you watching the news right now?”

For the second time in as many minutes, Marcus felt like letting the receiver slip from his sweat-soaked grasp. 

Even when they trained together, Miller had never referred to him by his first name.

“No,” he said simply, a tremor sweeping through the singular syllable. Miller sighed heavily, and the noise translated as a wave of static.

“I was afraid of that,” he said. “Marcus, I’m so sorry.”

He turned on the television before realizing he’d even reached for the remote, hands trembling with the onset of adrenaline. For the first few moments, nothing happened. The screen was blank, showing only a black and white test pattern that did little to illuminate the situation at hand.

“Miller, there’s nothing-“

“Keep watching. They’re playing it on a loop.”

“Miller, just tell me what’s going on,” Marcus ordered, a name bouncing around in his head that he hadn’t thought of for years. His gaze fell on a tarnished silver circle he’d nearly buried under neatly organized stacks of papers on his mahogany desk, and his stomach dropped.

“Is she all right?” Marcus asked, head spinning as he dropped the remote and replaced it with the small silver circle. It was cool to his touch as he traced his thumb over the etched design, it was foreign, it was alien, and he realized he didn’t remember the last time he’d worn it.

“Miller, answer me,” he hissed, all pretenses of decorum evaporated as he gripped the phone with white knuckles. “Do you know something? Jake and Abby Griffin, are they…”

The television answered his question before David Miller, thousands of miles away, could so much as open his mouth. The test pattern vanished in a startling flash of white, and footage of a smoldering wreckage appeared in its place.

For a moment, he thought it was recycled footage of District 13. Annoyance flickered in his expression for a brief moment – why was Miller so riled up about old footage from 13 that they’d all seen before? – but his annoyance withered as he read the words that scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

_High-speed train crash in District 9. Jacob Griffin, sole victor from District 12, presumed dead._

“I’m so sorry,” Miller repeated.

Marcus was too numb to respond.


	8. Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER WHERE MARCUS AND ABBY INTERACT AT THEIR CANON AGES. ARE Y'ALL READY? (I'm a little excited, if you can't tell. :P)

Marcus remembered the church where Jake Griffin’s funeral was to be held in near-perfect detail.

Throughout the train ride from District 7 to 12, tiny aspects of the chapel drifted back to his consciousness: the stained glass windows that painted the red carpets with flecks of green, blue, and yellow; the scratched wooden benches that held visitors in uncomfortable rigidity; the long shadows in the entryway that soaked the interior in an inescapable gloominess.

When his mother had taken him to church years ago, it had been a happy place where friends and family gathered to find comfort in prayer. If Vera Kane’s funeral hadn’t been held there, it might’ve only contained cheerful recollections of times long past. But the building was forever tainted now, a ghost of its former self, haunted by both happy memories of his childhood and one of the most depressing of his adulthood. The hour-long service for his mother where former friends and neighbors offered condolences with their words and condemnation with their eyes (he hadn’t been there for Vera when she was ill, she hadn’t told him, or anyone, for that matter, but he should have _known_ ) was nearly too much for him to bear.

He loved his mother more than any of them could understand, and just because they hadn’t remained close after he completed training didn’t mean he didn’t care about her. Vera was adamant about not wanting a telephone and declined Abby and Jake’s offer to let her use theirs, letters took a month to arrive and by then news was dated. Certain sentiments were timeless, of course – _I love you, I hope you’re safe, are you sure you can’t come home to visit? –_ but if he’d known how little time he had left with her, he would have made more of an effort. He would have been a better son.

Churchgoers and neighbors had imposed their stares on him as he stood before them in Peacekeeper uniform, reminding him with each sob and shake of their shoulders that none of it mattered now.

He loved his mother more than any of them could ever understand. Or at least, that was what he told himself as tears rolled down his cheeks, as four familiar words resurfaced from the depths of his memory.

_May we meet again._

That day, the day he considered to be the worst of his life, hadn’t been so different from the one into which he stepped off the train platform. The fall air felt strangely thick, heavy, though it carried a chill that sent a shiver up his spine. Gray clouds hung overhead, threatening rain, and as he walked through the dusty streets lined with ramshackle homes he chided himself for forgetting to remove his umbrella from the storage bin next to the door. It wouldn’t do him any good there.

He’d forgotten an umbrella on the worst day of his life, too, but its protection wouldn’t have made a difference. He was too numb to feel the cold water cascading over his skin, too lost in regret and guilt to pay mind to such a trivial thing as rain. A nagging voice in the back of his head told him today might be no different.

 _Abby._ They hadn’t spoken for quite a while, not since the worst day fifteen years ago. She offered her condolences, as did Jake, but it was clear that whatever camaraderie they’d had as children had evaporated. Not surprising, he thought, considering the silence that manifested between them in the years prior. He’d initiated the lack of contact as some means of protecting her from his feelings, but even once those emotions stagnated he’d kept the barrier in place.

To try to contact her and Jake after months and years of training, assignments, and moving around Panem…it would have been too much trouble for them all, too forced. Jake had become the mentor for the tributes from Twelve, Abby a doctor, and he a Peacekeeper. They weren’t the same children that had played together under the winding branches in the forest, and Marcus saw no point in acting like nothing changed.

So when he received an invitation to her wedding, to the ceremony that would officially make her Abigail _Griffin_ instead of Abigail Walters, he didn’t respond. They weren’t the same people they’d once been, and he was certain the invitation had only been extended to him as a formality, an acknowledgement of their shared past.

As loath as he was to admit it, the thought of Abby in a white dress – Abby walking down the aisle, Abby smiling her dazzling smile behind a shimmering veil, Abby’s eyes shining with tears of joy - it dredged up some unpleasant emotions he thought he’d made peace with, thought he’d abandoned in the past. So the invitation met the wastepaper basket after collecting dust on his desk for a few weeks, after the deep blue ink faded and the gilded ribbons unfurled. And life went on as it always had.

Until Miller’s phone call.

As the church’s wooden steps groaned under his weight and his fingers grazed the chipped white paint on the railing, he wondered if he had any business being here. In a way, making the return trip to Twelve had broken his self-imposed rule.But Jake Griffin was a thread woven too tightly into his past to tear out, and ignoring the occasion would have thrown him under another wave of guilt. Jake had done much for him during the years of their youth, and although they hadn’t maintained contact his heart was heavy with what was to come.

With shaking hands he pushed open the door, trying to make peace with the demons from his past before the present summoned new ones.

The crowd was smaller than Marcus assumed it would be, largely because his image of Jake Griffin still centered around the boy who won the Games. It was clear none of the attendees were from the Capitol – they were dressed too plainly and looked too natural – but they were there, scattered around the stuffy room that smelled of saltwater and heartbreak.

In the center of it all was a woman with brown hair and brown eyes.

Marcus stopped in the entryway, suddenly confronted with the urge to turn around and run back to the train. To go back to his house, lose himself in his work, and vow to never again mess with the ghosts of his past. Because truly, that’s what Abigail Griffin was: a ghost, a mirage of something that could have been, _someone_ Marcus could have been.

 _We’re not kids anymore,_ he reminded himself, although that did little to reconcile the shame that began churning in the depths of his stomach. He moved out of the entrance to allow others inside and looked at her again. She was wearing a black dress that rustled as she wiped tears from her cheeks – it was too plain to have been from the Capitol, she must have bought it from a seamstress in Twelve – but he could tell from the way her jaw clenched that she was holding back. She was trying to conceal her pain, but why?

The answer stood a few feet to her right, embracing a boy with dark skin. The answer had Jake’s blonde hair and Jake’s blue eyes and was seventeen years old.

 _Clarke,_ Marcus thought as his gaze drifted to her, the girl he learned through various broadcasts and reports was Abby and Jake’s only child. She looked so much like her father that Marcus felt a physical ache in his chest, a pain made more intense by the fact that he hadn’t been expecting it. He’d thought time would heal the pain of questions left unanswered, but it seemed now that it had only delayed the impact.

Clarke broke apart from her friend, openly crying, and Marcus jumped as a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Marcus Kane,” a voice said softly, and he turned to find the source. “I did't think you'd be here.”

“Thelonious?” Marcus whispered, taken aback. His memories of Thelonious Jaha were fragmented at best. They’d been friends growing up but hadn’t been as close as he and Jake and Abby. But the man who stood before him now was every bit as composed as the boy who led the class in the Pledge of Panem every day, and exuded an aura of determined leadership he’d only felt in the presence of Charles Pike.

“You recognized me,” he said calmly, although his dark eyes betrayed his sadness. “It’s been a long time.”

“It has,” Marcus acknowledged, that familiar regret seeping into his veins again. _I hadn’t seen you since her funeral._ “I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”

“Indeed,” Thelonious agreed with a nod. “Losing Jake has taken a toll on everyone. It just doesn’t make sense, a tragedy like this. People are upset.”

For a moment Marcus wondered how his old friend was able to make such a generalization, until he remembered reading one of Twelve’s Peacekeeper reports: _Thelonious Jaha, recently elected mayor, promises to maintain stability in the District while upholding laws._ Naturally, Mayor Jaha would know his people.

“How are Abby and Clarke?” he asked, each word heavy on his tongue.

“They’re doing as well as could be expected,” Thelonious answered, an empathy shining in his eyes that both prompted Marcus to ask a question and gave him the answer, informing him that Thelonious Jaha understood Abby’s pain better than he ever could.

The boy Clarke had embraced materialized at Thelonious’ side, tears trailing down his cheeks.

“Wells,” Thelonious said with a sad smile, wrapping a comforting arm around the child as his shoulders trembled. “This is Marcus Kane, one of my childhood friends.”

Marcus looked at Wells and Wells stared back, clearly shaken by his friend’s loss and less than willing to meet his father’s old friend at such a time. Realizing no words were likely to be spoken, Thelonious filled the gap in the conversation.

“Marcus, this is my son,” he said, but Marcus’ attention was elsewhere.

It was remarkable, he thought, how unchanged she was. Time had etched new lines into her forehead the same way it painted strokes of gray into his hair, but she still had the same fire behind her brown eyes, the same determined clench to her jaw. Even in cloaked in the darkness of grief she was stunning, striking.

“I haven’t spoken to her yet,” Marcus said numbly, and Thelonious inclined his head in her direction.

“Go,” he said softly. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

Marcus wasn’t so certain after everything that happened (or rather, everything that _hadn’t_ happened), but wouldn’t voice that to the mayor of District 12. Instead, he broke away from the man and his son to close the distance between him and his oldest friend.

With every step he took, every imprint of his shoes in the worn carpet, he had the sensation of floating. There was a strangely surreal, nightmarish quality to everything around him: people’s voices were too loud, the shadows too long, the colors pale and faded. She was both too close and too far away, and every fiber of him wanted to turn around and run.

Instead he came to a stop in front of Abigail Griffin, wiping sweaty palms on his pants and taking a deep breath to begin a conversation he had no idea how to have.

“Abby,” he said, and her brown eyes widened.

The seconds before she spoke seemed to last eons.

“Well,” she said flatly. “You’re the last person I expected to see.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said. It was an apology for her loss, but it extended farther in the past than the accident. It was an apology for the years of unanswered letters, for the wedding invitation that he hadn’t acknowledged, for the friendship he’d let dissipate. But his words weren’t enough, and he didn’t expect them to be. Nearly 24 years of silence couldn’t be mended with three words, and they were a lead weight in his heart when he realized he could never make it up to Jake.

Abby made no attempt to accept his apology, biting her lower lip as she looked at her daughter.

“Can I talk to you after the reception?” she asked, her tone devoid of emotion. “There are some things I’d like to discuss with you.”

Words failing him, Marcus could only nod. Abby turned away from him without a backward glance, focusing her attention on Clarke, who had begun crying again after a period of sniffling silence.

“It’s going to be okay, honey,” he heard Abby whisper, as she gathered her daughter in her arms and placed a comforting hand on top of her head.

He wondered if she believed that.

***

“Why the hell are you here?” she snapped as soon as the doors of the church slammed shut, rage simmering in her chocolate eyes as rainwater poured down on them. He blanched. He hadn’t expected this to be a pleasant conversation, but this was a side of Abby he’d never seen as a child. Not since that night in the woods when she’d expressed her anger at the Capitol had he seen her this upset, this distraught. She had every right to her feelings, he knew, and he fought to keep his voice even.

“Jake was my friend,” he said in a whisper, and Abby made a noise that fell somewhere between a bitter laugh and a sob.

“He was your _friend_?” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with shaking hands. “After everything, you think you have a right to say that?”

“Abby, I –“ he started, clueless as to where his sentence was going. What could he say? He read and kept each of her letters. He still had her pin. But it would have been too hard to foster a friendship with them after everything that happened, after the role the Capitol played in Jake’s life. Clarke would always know the Capitol as the abusive government that forced her father into the arena, and Abby would always know him as the boy from the Seam who grew up to be a man from District 7 who rejected every attempt at friendship she and her husband had offered.

“No,” she spat, glaring at him. “I don’t need your excuses, _Kane_. Neither did Vera.”

His surname hit him like a slap in the face, as did the use of his mother’s name. What was she trying to do by bringing his mother into this? Using her to evoke emotion from him was a low blow. How much had her opinion of him changed in those years?

“Don’t bring my mother into this,” he said, lowering his voice although there was no one watching in the trees to hear their conversation. “This is between you and me.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Abby said. “She wasn’t good enough for you, either. Not after you passed training. You wrote to her once –“

“I wrote to her more than once!” Marcus said, nearly yelling as his memory failed him. Had he sent those letters to her? Were they still sitting under piles of memos on his desk?

“Will you let me _talk_?” Abby yelled, startling a few birds from the trees who evacuated with surprised chirps. Her eyes both flashed and filled with tears.

“I know you read my letters,” she started, and he knew the rest of the conversation was headed nowhere pleasant. “All of them. I sent them to the same address, and none of them came back.”

He sighed. “Abby, I-“

“I’m not done,” she said. 

He glared at her, she glared at him, and he closed his mouth.

“Even after your silence, Jake wanted you to be his best man in the wedding. He had plenty of friends in other districts, but he wanted you.”

She paused for a short, sharp, mirthless laugh, which a quiet roll of thunder consumed.

“He thought if you agreed to help with the wedding, it would fix everything. That even though it had been four or five years since we heard from you, if he asked you to be his best man you’d say yes and everything would go back to the way it was. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He tried to call you, but you didn’t answer –“

“I wasn’t always at home, Abby!”

That much was true – he’d never gotten a phone call from Jake Griffin. But the letters he ignored, the extended hand of friendship he’d slapped away again and again and again….the mark he’d left on their family was still red, burning, and it seemed more and more like he wouldn’t be able to heal it.

“He sent you an invitation and again, nothing. I wanted to protect him from that. And when the man standing behind him on our wedding day wasn’t you, he knew he wasn’t getting you back. I accepted that long before the day we were married, when you deemed we weren’t _worthy_ of you –“

“Abby, that’s not what –“

Through the haze of guilt, anger, and regret, he realized she was crying. Her mascara ran down her face like black raindrops as she kept berating him, as she called forth all the spirits from a past he never managed to outrun.

“But do you know what hurt the most, _Peacekeeper_?” she said, mocking him with his official title as her voice broke. “He missed you. He missed you even when he knew it wasn’t logical, because he cared. He probably still missed you when he got onto that damn train –“ her voice broke and he stepped forward in an attempt to comfort her, placing a hand on her shoulder that she shrugged off.

“And now, twenty years later, you show up. When it doesn’t matter, you grace us with your presence. You show up when it doesn't matter anymore."

Marcus was speechless, fighting tears and a lump in his throat. His guilt morphed into anger as he was once again amazed at her boldness,and he stepped closer, intending to make his point clear.

“I loved her,” he whispered sternly, unable to raise his voice any louder than that. “Don’t you _dare_ try to tell me how I felt about my own mother.”

“I’m not saying you didn’t,” Abby said, stepping even closer and angling her chin upward to glare into his eyes, blinking rainwater from her lashes. They were close enough now that he could see the sheen of grief that surrounded her anger, her hatred. Those brown eyes he’d dreamt about as a child, those eyes that had sparkled for him, were dull now.

As lighning flashed in the distance, he understood Abigail Walters was lost to him.

“But if this is how you treat the people you love,” she continued, “you’re just causing them pain.”

Marcus opened his mouth to offer a weak response, watered down by emotion and a newfound despair, but Abby turned on her heel, threw open the door of the church, and slammed it behind her. There were so many things he couldn’t tell her, not now, never. He couldn’t tell her about his guilt. He couldn’t tell her about the nights he woke in a cold sweat because he dreamt of his mother, of the things he’d done, and didn’t fall asleep again.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he whispered to a woman who couldn’t hear him. A woman who _wouldn’t_ hear him, not after what he’d done to she and her husband. He’d brought this upon himself, he realized. Her hatred was only another piece of rock in a mountain of wrongdoings he committed.

His mother’s face flitted in his mind’s eye yet again, and he knew she’d want him to go back inside the church and apologize. To alleviate the pain he caused Abby Griffin and try to start over. But Marcus Kane had started over only once in his life, and he was sick of staring over because of _her_. If she despised him until the day she died, then that was the way things were meant to be between the two of them.

All he truly had was his work, and that was all he needed to keep going, to keep surviving. His job was proof that he wasn’t a failure, that he was better than the boy from the Seam he’d once been. Abby Griffin had never been anything but a thorn in his side, and today was the day he’d remove that thorn and allow the wound to heal.

So instead of listening to Vera Kane’s melodic voice, instead of heeding her advice, he turned around and walked out into the thunderstorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are the song in my heart.


	9. Promotions

Charles Pike’s office was simple, elegant, and refined. He didn’t bother with the indulgences Capitol citizens viewed as paramount – he saw them as distractions from the one true value in his life, the law – and thus, his quarters reflected his ideals.

The walls were painted a faint blue, a color meant to symbolize peace and tranquility. He sat behind a desk made of solid mahogany, on which his papers were meticulously organized. The books on his matching bookshelf were sorted by topic and color. The most indulgent thing in his space was a sculpture of a balancing scale, a symbol of the rule of law from before the war. It was expensive, a gift from President Snow.

Marcus observed all of this for the first time on a rainy day in early fall, after a mysterious phone call requesting a meeting and a somewhat dreary train ride to the Capitol. He hadn’t known what he expected from the Head Peacekeeper’s office, but it hadn’t been _this_.

“Kane,” Pike said, greeting him with a glass of bourbon. Marcus, consumed by nerves, set the glass on the mahogany desk without taking a sip. Intrigued by his lack of courtesy, Pike set his own drink down before it reached his lips. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Marcus said, hoping his pleasantries sounded faintly convincing. He didn’t dislike Charles, but no Peacekeeper was called to his office without clear reason. That was where the confusion started.

There was no reason for Marcus Kane to have been called to a meeting with Charles Pike.

There had been little to no rebellious activity in his district. He’d upheld all laws, and any orders he’d been given from the Capitol had been followed to the letter. Part of him considered the possibility he was being given a promotion, but those were normally communicated by letter or telephone call. It was rare that meetings with Pike ended well, and it was for that reason that he was nearly sick with a dread-fueled anticipation.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” Pike said, taking words out of his tumultuous thoughts. Marcus nodded.

“I’ll get to the point, because we don’t have any time to waste,” he said. “I need you to take over in District 12.”

Marcus’ mind went completely blank. For a moment he wondered if he’d misheard the man in front of him – certainly he couldn’t have said what Marcus thought he heard him say. That, he thought, would be absurd.

“What?” he asked, trying to maintain decorum while the room started spinning around him. _I can’t go back there._

“I know it’s unexpected,” Pike said, and Marcus knew the man wasn’t faking the sympathy in his gaze. “I can explain. I assume you heard about Cray?”

Marcus nodded. Twelve’s Peacekeeper had died of old age only hours earlier, but such information was distributed rapidly among the Capitol’s law enforcement. He’d known the force would want to fill the position as quickly as possible, but never thought he’d be the one offered the job.

 _Is this a demotion?_ he wondered, stomach dropping. There was no reason to demote him. He knew of at least three other officers who were less strict with the law than him, who let citizens in their district get away with almost anything as long as there was some benefit in store for them. Cray hadn’t been an angel, either, but the Capitol looked the other way as long as Twelve was kept under control. Miraculously, they hadn’t taken advantage of Cray’s less-than-lawful ways, at least as far as he and the rest of the officers knew.

“We need someone to take over for him,” Pike said, shifting his weight in his swivel chair. The sound of the springs squeaking was something he would have normally found irksome, but Marcus was beyond being able to hear it. “The sooner, the better.”

“I understand,” Marcus said, forever trying to maintain procedure as his heart all but sprung from his chest. “But can you tell me why I’m being considered? Shouldn’t this position go to someone…” he struggled to finish the sentence, the only ending his mind produced falling along the lines of “less experienced.”

“You’re the only one we’re considering,” Pike said as Marcus picked up the glass from its home on his desk, and he nearly dropped it when those words registered. “In fact, Kane, you’re not being ‘considered’ at all. You’re being reassigned.”

Marcus thought about his home in Seven, the small cabin he’d made his own. While he’d spent the majority of his time alone inside it, there were memories there nonetheless, and he didn’t want to leave those four walls and a roof.

And there was the small detail that _he couldn’t go back to Twelve._ Not after the decades of bad blood that preceded him. Peacekeepers weren’t met with flowers and applause in the lower-numbered districts, but he’d be lucky not to be run off completely given his reputation among the general population.

Yet another detail, this one large enough to cause a flicker of pain in his chest: Twelve’s healer despised him completely and wholeheartedly. That, combined with memories of his mother’s and Jake’s funeral, was enough to keep him outside the fences of District 12 forever. To him, it may as well have been caught in the bombings he’d read about from the pre-Panem war: it didn’t exist. To Marcus Kane, it was a vast expanse of nothingness and years of pressurized pain waiting to explode.

“Can you tell me why I’m being reassigned?” he asked quietly. Pike looked at him for a long moment as if he were evaluating him, making a determination based on the look in his eyes. For a moment the walls of decorum fell, and Marcus saw a man who wasn’t Charles Pike, Head Peacekeeper; he saw a man exhausted, a man made weary from his years of service, and most of all – a man afraid.

But the moment was just that, a moment, and soon the Head Peacekeeper returned.

“After what happened to Jake Griffin, President Snow’s worried about a rebellion.”

Every muscle in Marcus’ body tensed at the mention of his childhood friend. It had been three months since the funeral, but certain memories remained as vivid in his memory as if he’d stepped into Pike’s office from that fateful church in Twelve.

“What reason does he have to be worried about Jake?” Marcus asked, genuinely mystified. “Certainly The Capitol isn’t concerned with him anymore.”

There had been 24 new victors since Jake Griffin won his Games, and news coverage of he and Abby faded considerably after their wedding. Marcus didn’t recall seeing anything on Capitol stations other than a few mentions of the accident, a few sympathetic words from newscasters who had more glamorous individuals to fawn over. Time, it seemed, remembered victors from Career districts better than those from poverty.

Pike gave a short laugh and took a sip of bourbon.

“That isn’t information you need to know, Kane,” he said simply, and suddenly that simple office looked a lot more complex. Suddenly secrets hid in every shadow, swirled in the amber liquid, flickered in the lights that shone overhead. And most of all, they surrounded the dark-skinned man who leaned forward on his desk to look Marcus Kane directly in the eyes. “All you need to know is that things could change in Twelve on a moment’s notice. I’m trusting you to preserve the peace, no matter what it takes."

Marcus nodded. What else could he do? Argument was out of the question.

"Once you get back to Seven, you’ll have an hour to pack your things before boarding the train to Twelve," Pike continued. "The mayor will greet you at the station and show you to your quarters.”

_But you can’t tell me how Jake’s involved in this?_

His mind wandered to several places in the time between Pike’s statement and his response. It went to District 5, trying to determine which of his belongings were important enough to gather in the meager time he’d been given to pack.

It drifted to Jake Griffin, who’d suddenly become more of an enigma than Marcus ever understood.

And it flickered briefly to a woman with chocolate eyes and chestnut hair, a woman who’d be none too welcoming when he stepped off the train.

But Peacekeeper code left him only one response in this situation.

“I’ll uphold the peace, sir,” he said, his throat dry, denying his voice the emotions that churned in his chest. “By any means necessary.”

* * *

 

“We were beginning to worry you wouldn’t come,” Thelonious Jaha remarked as Marcus stepped off the train, a duffel bag with his most important possessions in hand. So sick was he with nerves he barely heard the mayor’s words or registered the silent presence of his son on his right, he didn’t see the train speed off in a cloud of dust or feel the breeze it stirred behind him.

His chuckle, then, was completely false.

“I was given orders,” Marcus said, unzipping his leather jacket with a sigh. It was warmer here than in Seven, and he now understood the clothes he’d brought from his home were useless here until the winter months. More wasted space in his bag, he thought. His copy of The Laws of Panem was so _heavy_. Not for the first time, he wondered how he’d managed to carry it everywhere with him during training.

“Would you like me to take that for you?” Wells asked, noticing his discomfort and moving toward him from his place at his father’s side. He motioned to the bag in Marcus’ hand, but Marcus shook his head.

“I’m fine…” he trailed off, filling the space where a name should have fit with awkward silence. The boy didn’t miss a beat, extending his hand.

“Wells,” he said with a warm smile. There was a genuineness to him to which Marcus took an instant liking, an authenticity that had been lacking in the youth from higher-numbered districts and the Capitol. The name brought back memories from the not-so-distant past, memories of him comforting Abby’s daughter, and he wondered if they were friends or if Wells extended such kindness to everyone.

“I’m fine, Wells,” Marcus said with a respectful nod and a firm handshake, correcting his mistake. “But thank you for offering.”

Thelonious stepped forward on the ramshackle platform then, evening himself in position with his son and the new Head Peacekeeper for his district.

“You’re not dressed for summer,” he observed with raised eyebrows. “We’ll have to find you suitable clothes after you’re settled in.”

“I wasn’t informed about the weather,” Marcus said. “You’ll have to excuse me for being ill-prepared.”

Beads of sweat began forming at the tip of his hairline as they spoke. Had summers been this hot when he was growing up? He had no memory of this scorching heat.

“It’s nothing we can’t fix,” Wells said as they began to walk, exposing themselves to the midday sun from the shade of the platform. It became apparent that Marcus wouldn’t be able to keep his jacket on without suffering heatstroke, and he shed it within seconds of coming into contact with direct sunlight.

When he’d been in town for the funeral, he hadn’t really observed his surroundings. His mind had been otherwise occupied, and he hadn’t seen the point in refocusing it on crumbling structures and listless people he’d never see again – or so he thought. But now, trudging through the stifling heat in a district that felt both foreign and familiar, he allowed himself to take it all in.

It wasn’t easy.

While he knew it was foolishly optimistic to think things had gotten better in 12 since the days of his youth, he’d at least held some hope that they hadn’t gotten _worse_. But years of neglect from the Capitol and less-than-abundant resources hadn’t done his home district any good, and it was showing its wear. They passed rows of homes constructed with rotting wood, children running through the gravel road without shoes or protection from the merciless sun, parents hanging threadbare clothes on lines strung between collapsing roofs. Marcus remembered it all too well – the poverty, the desolation, the starvation – but Abby and Jake had come to his rescue when he and his mother feared the worst.

No one was rescuing these people. No one was rescuing the woman whose spine was visible when she bent over her washboard to scrub coal dust from her husband’s uniform, no one was rescuing the child whose skin stretched thinly over his ribs, exposing his malnutrition for the world to see.

They gaped at Marcus as he walked by, clearly unaccustomed to the sight of a Capitol official strolling through their streets (and flanked by the mayor and his son, no less). He wondered if they’d known what happened to Cray, or if he’d been so corrupt and decrepit that he’d just vanished to the majority of them, blown away like coal dust in the wind.

They didn’t meet his eyes, and he didn’t attempt to meet theirs. He wasn’t here to offer kindly smiles. He wasn’t here to rescue them. Charles Pike’s words rattled around in the back of his mind yet again – “no matter what it takes” – and from this moment forward, he’d have to treat these people as if each one of them had the potential to be a rebel, to be a threat to the peace the Capitol worked so hard to maintain.

Marcus Kane was in charge now, and things were going to change in District 12.

“Clarke!” Wells yelled suddenly, darting away from him to meet the blonde-haired girl Marcus recognized as Abby’s daughter. She ran toward him, too, and they met halfway in the middle of the street, leaving clouds of dust spiraling in their wake. He looked to Thelonious for further instruction, expecting him to leave the boy and girl to their conversation and continue with their procession, but instead he changed course and walked in the same direction as his son.

They closed the gap between themselves and the kids in less than a minute, arriving just in time to hear Clarke protesting vehemently against something Wells had said.

“Raven was going to go with me, Wells, I wasn’t _supposed_ to be here alone –“

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” the boy said firmly, surprising Marcus. The difference in his tone when he’d addressed him at the train station to the one he used with Clarke Griffin was striking. It reminded him of one he’d taken with the girl’s mother once upon a time, when she ran off in the middle of the night after watching her future husband’s games.

_“You shouldn’t be out here, Abby.”_

_“Go home, Marcus.”_

Thelonious looked from Clarke to his son, apparently deciding it was time for him to take the reins in their conversation.

“Clarke, what are you doing here?” he asked, calm. She tore her gaze away from his son to meet his, and in the oppressive sunlight her eyes were startlingly, hauntingly blue. They were the blue of apologies Marcus Kane had never spoken, of amends he’d never be able to make.

“I’m delivering medicine,” Jake Griffin’s daughter said, tilting her head to the left and raising her eyebrows a fraction. “Raven was supposed to go with me, but she had to fix the lighting system in the mines.”

“Couldn’t your mother have gone with you?” Thelonious asked.

For no apparent reason, Marcus’ stomach sank.

“She’s busy,” Clarke retorted, smoothing her light blue dress as the wind ruffled it. “She has patients to see.”

“You could have asked me to go with you,” Wells interjected. Clarke rolled her eyes, but her lips formed a warm smile.

“You were busy, too,” she said. “I can handle myself.”

“You need to be careful, Clarke,” Thelonious said, and she turned back to him. “You shouldn’t be walking through the Seam alone, even in the middle of the day.”

“Okay,” Clarke said, her chin jutting out slightly as she gave the mayor of District 12 a defiant glare. _She doesn’t get that from her father._ Much like her mother, Marcus got the sense that an “okay” from Clarke Griffin only meant she wasn’t going to do a thing you asked.

“Well, that’s settled,” Thelonious said, and Clarke turned to leave, satchel of medicine in hand. Wells stopped her from walking away by placing a hand on her shoulder, and she turned around with a sigh.

“Wait,” he said. “Clarke, this is our new Peacekeeper, Kane. Peacekeeper Kane, this is Clarke Griffin.”

She glanced in Marcus’ direction for the first time. With those ice blue eyes fixed on him and her hair nearly white in the sunlight, his heart nearly stopped. _She looks just like Jake._

Clarke regarded him for a moment with an expression of puzzlement, as if she recognized his face but couldn’t place him at a moment in her life. After a few seconds she surpassed her confusion and extended a hand, still looking him in the eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peacekeeper Kane.”

“And you, Ms. Griffin,” Marcus said, tongue heavy in his mouth as he shook her hand. She turned away to continue her deliveries and Wells followed her, insisting she be accompanied on the rest of her errands. She didn’t protest, and soon Thelonious was his only companion.

They continued their journey along the streets of District 12 in silence, and a few minutes passed until Thelonious broke it with a comment.

“I apologize. Your accommodations are on the outskirts of the district,” he said, glancing around as their surroundings shifted from a penniless town to the woods Marcus remembered well. District 7’s export had been lumber, but there was something different about the forests in Twelve, something that drew him in despite his mixed emotions for the rest of the district. He breathed in, filling his lungs with the sweet scent of pine trees and the bitterness of nostalgia.

“They were on the outskirts in Seven, too,” Marcus answered, suddenly more interested in the scenery than Thelonious Jaha.

Was this the same section of woods where he and Jake had climbed trees? As he looked around, he could almost see it: his lungs burning, arms shaking as he propelled himself from branch to branch, racing his closest friend to see who touched the sky first. Abby hadn’t joined them in the competition, but she waited on the ground with a book in her hand and a smile on her face, embracing them both regardless who won or lost.

The stories of his childhood were written in these woods, their footprints memorized by the soil, and the trees would tell their stories long after they were gone. Now that story seemed like a tragedy to Marcus, and he didn’t know if the forest would want to recall their tale. Who would?

“We’re here,” Thelonious announced suddenly, and Marcus returned to reality. He stopped in front of a two-story home nicer than anything he’d seen in the heart of the district: it was painted a deep brown and blended in with the forest, though in some places the covering receded to show the wood underneath. It wasn’t as refined as his quarters in District 7, but it was far better than he expected.

Thelonious handed him an old, rusted key. “I’ll let you get settled,” he said with a smile, genuine warmth emanating from his brown eyes. “Don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything you need.”

Marcus was surprised the home had a phone given the lack of technology in the district as a whole, but guessed exceptions were made for Peacekeepers, government officials, and victors. There was so much, he realized, that he’d never known about the place in which he’d grown up. To the boy from the Seam, phones had been as mysterious and strange as the Capitol itself. To the man from district 7, they were a necessity for maintaining order.

“Thank you,” Marcus said, returning the mayor’s smile. “When should I meet with you to discuss your plans?”

Thelonious laughed, the skin at the edges of his eyes crinkling as he grinned. “Well that’s something I never heard from Cray.”

“Cray didn’t take his job seriously,” Marcus replied. The law, after all, was almost all Marcus Kane had. The law hadn’t left him, turned against him, or defied him. In his constantly shifting world, the law was a constant. The least he could do was treat it like it mattered to him. He owed everything to it.

He made plans with Thelonious to meet at his home the next afternoon and said goodbye, entering the house after a struggle with the key in the lock (Cray probably never locked the house, he thought, because it was so much damn work to fit the key into the keyhole) and dropping his duffel bag on a dust-laden carpet. Coughing, he realized Twelve’s old Peacekeeper had shown as much interest in maintaining the regulations of Panem as he had in housekeeping: none at all.

If it weren’t so filthy, he thought, the house could have been beautiful. Windows in the entryway and living room filtered in sunlight from the forest, and the furniture was old and patched but, as he found after testing it, comfortable. The wooden floor was finished with care, and the walls were painted a pleasant shade of cream. All in all, he’d expected his home to reflect the quality of life in the district. This was quite a few steps above what the rest of the citizens had, and certainly more indulgent than the home he grew up in.

The rest of the house was the same: quaint, aged, dirty, oddly comforting. He felt a pang in his heart when he thought about how his mother would have loved to live in a place like this. She adored nature of all kinds, and he remembered she’d even kept a small tree inside their house. They tended to it together each day when he came home from school and collected rainwater for it (they couldn’t spare fresh water, no one from the Seam could), but he couldn’t take it to the Capitol with him when he left for training. He smiled a sad smile when he remembered her name for it: the Eden tree. What had become of their little Eden tree? Was it still sitting on the windowsill where he left it before training? Had someone planted it?

Mulling over the tree and unexpected grief, he stepped into the bedroom. It was much as he expected – a wooden dresser in the far corner, a full-length mirror on the back of the door, and a small closet large enough only for his jacket and uniform. The bed was king sized, far larger than he thought it would be. His bed in seven had been small enough only for him, which hadn’t been a problem, but this was yet another anomaly in a house full of surprises.

He began to unpack the rest of his items, placing letters from his mother on the top of the dresser where he could access them easily – he read them from time to time when he missed the sound of her voice, wanted to see the image of her smile – and set his copy of the Laws of Panem next to them. Ten minutes passed and he found new homes for most of his items. Marcus Kane wasn’t sentimental, and the length of time was more reflective of learning the layout of a new home than the quantity of things he brought.

He only struggled with a few of them, for a simple reason he couldn’t admit to himself: they were related to Abby Griffin.

The thought of leaving her letters behind, of abandoning her pin as some relic for the next Head Peacekeeper of District 7 to pick up and marvel over, made his stomach churn. He was caught in limbo between remembering Abby as the friend he treasured and the woman who despised him, and that lack of certainty made him frustratingly unable to jettison anything related to her. She was some combination of everything and nothing at all to him, so he shoved her letters in the bottom of his duffel bag and tried to forget the way his heart lurched when he noticed them on the bottom.

Dealing with her in this context was going to be a nightmare, he thought as he swept a hand over his clenched jaw. They were both strong-willed people in their own ways – he with the law and she with her principles – and no matter how he tried to avoid it, he knew a collision was unavoidable.

The most he could do was attempt to stall it for as long as possible while the universe pulled them back toward each other.

So he put her letters and pin in a drawer and slammed it shut, angry at himself for being unable to let her go and angry at her for building a home in the darkest corners of his memory.


	10. Doctor Griffin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fences to which Abby and Raven are referring are electrified, barbed-wire borders around District 12. Since Twelve is in the mountains, the fences were built to keep predatory animals out and citizens inside. Useful info to know, if you've never read the books.

_One week later_

 

 It had been a long day and a long, restless night had preceded it. Doctor Abigail Griffin wanted nothing more than to collapse into an exhausted ball of sleep deprivation on her well-worn couch and give in to the fatigue that threatened to consume her.

Of course, such luxuries weren’t affordable. Not to her, the only doctor in a town full of accident-prone miners. Rubbing her eyes and tucking a strand of chestnut hair over her ear, she gathered the small amount of energy she had left and refocused it on the small patient sitting in front of her.

“How are you, Rebecca?” she asked, giving the girl a reassuring smile. “Are you feeling better?”

The girl smiled back, ringlet curls bouncing as she nodded. Her father, a ginger-haired miner from the Seam, hadn’t let go of her hand since they entered Abby’s home. She understood his reluctance: most people in District 12 didn’t understand modern medicine and were too proud to visit her until their symptoms took a major turn for the worst. By the time they chose to come see her, she often had to use her strongest medicines to alleviate their pain.

Thankfully, his daughter had been a relatively straightforward case. She acquired a fever after spending too much time outside in a rainstorm. It was an illness she treated Clarke for in her younger, pre-teen years, and Abby knew exactly which herbs would treat it best. Her father had been less than willing at first, needing reassurance that the concoction wouldn’t make his daughter worse, and Abby promised if she took it twice a day it would help her heal. It gave her a rush of happiness to be proven right.

“Let me take your temperature,” Abby said, proceeding with the protocol she’d been taught in medical school years ago. The tests she ran came back negative – she was cured of her illness.

“You’re going to be okay,” Abby said warmly, ruffling the girl’s hair. She laughed as she jumped down from the cot, and Abby’s heart soared. 

“What if her symptoms come back?” her father asked, concern hiding in his carefully measured tone.

“They shouldn’t,” Abby said. “But if they do, see me right away.”

“Thank you, Doctor Griffin!” Rebecca said, throwing her small arms around Abby’s legs. “You fixed me.”

A smile made its way across her lips as she returned the embrace as best she could. It wasn’t proper for her to be affectionate with her patients, but in this case she didn’t see any harm.

She guided the young girl and her father back toward the entryway, reassuring them again that if her symptoms returned they could come back at any hour of the day or night. With a wave and a smile she watched them leave, then felt the monster of her inescapable fatigue hunt her down again. As she changed the bedding on the cot and arranged logs in the fireplace for a fire, she tried to keep it at bay as best she could. Vision blurring at the edges, she made her way into the kitchen and rummaged around in cabinets until she found what she was looking for: a match. She walked back to the living room and lit the fire, pausing for a moment to bask in its glow. Jake had loved fires, and at times like this she could hear his voice, feel his arms around her.

If she was being honest with herself, she lit the fire because she missed him more than usual tonight. Clarke was gone, visiting her friends on the other side of town, and she had no patients to take care of. The house was quiet, the house was empty, and her heart was heavy as she sat down on the couch he used to love.

The sofa was softened from years of use, and heat from the fire made it comfortably warm. _A quiet night,_ she thought with both relief and chagrin, tucking an arm underneath one of the couch’s multiple pillows and rotating toward the flickering flames. Eventually her brain relinquished its grip on her emotions and her eyelids grew heavy. She yawned, imagining her husband’s comforting arms around her, and allowed them to slip shut.

_Thud! Thud! Thud!_

Addled with sleep, she wondered if she’d imagined the knocks on the door. Stranger things had happened when she became low on rest, and it wouldn’t have surprised her if no one truly stood outside on her doorstep at – she looked at the clock – ten at night.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

An exhausted sigh slipped from between her lips as she swung her legs around, placing her feet firmly on the wool rug and rising from her all-too comfortable position. Sleep, it seemed, was just another dream she wouldn’t be able to have tonight.

She walked quickly toward the door, preparing herself for whatever might be on the other side. At this hour she wasn’t expecting any mine-related injuries (the workday ended hours ago, and as far as she knew the Capitol hadn’t required any overtime) but there were a plethora of other things that could go wrong at any time in their district. Especially when kids realized the fences weren’t electrified…

The door creaked on its rusty hinges as she pulled it open, but the face on the other side wasn’t what she’d been expecting.

“Raven?” she said, incredulous.

Raven Reyes was a few years older than Clarke, the assistant mechanic to Jacopo Sinclair in the mines. The girls had started off as enemies when they both liked the same boy. Eventually they moved past it (as teenagers usually did), both lost interest in the boy, and formed a friendship in the aftermath. Clarke admired Raven’s skill with machinery and her determination, and Raven admired Clarke’s knack for knowing what was right in any given situation.

Of course, none of this explained why she had taken it upon herself to show up on their doorstep so late at night.

“Are you looking for Clarke?” Abby asked, inviting Raven in with a gesture of her hand. Raven shook her head, her dark ponytail swinging and catching the dim candlelight.

“Nope,” she answered. “I’m here to see you.”

“Are you all right?” Abby asked yet another question, trying to make sense of this odd situation. The only time Raven had come to see her of her own volition had been when she broke her wrist in the mines, working on an old piece of machinery that Sinclair _told_ her not to touch. But Raven, seeing potential in the old, rusted metal for a better generator, ignored him and ended up injured.

“I’m fine, Abby,” Raven said with an eye-roll. Abby calmed her soaring pulse and stopped walking toward the cot, relief draining the tension from her shoulders. For the first time since her daughter’s friend entered their home, she allowed herself to feel the extent of her confusion.

“Did you...need to talk to me about something?” Abby asked, hoping the third question would get some information out of her. She told Raven she could sit down on the couch if she wanted, but the girl shook her head.

“Yeah. I have some news. You know the new Peacekeeper, right?”

_Marcus._

Abby had seen Marcus Kane exactly once since he arrived in Twelve, and that hadn’t been by choice. She would have avoided him altogether, but Thelonious called a gathering to “welcome” the new man in charge of all their laws and making sure they were adhering to Capitol regulations. As he stared out at all of them from the District Hall, she realized the expression on his face was one of smugness, superiority. He had power over them now, and the law was closer to him than she and her husband had ever been. He loved his job more than his family and friends. That much was clear.

Filled with rage and disgust, she hadn’t clapped when Thelonious announced his name. When the ceremony ended she was one of the first to leave, Clarke on her heels. Her daughter aimed various questions at her as they made their way back home, all of which she answered honestly. She had known him when they were young, she wasn’t angry, yes, he was the man she talked to after the funeral, no, she wasn’t going to tell her what they talked about.

“I know we _have_ a new Peacekeeper,” she said, unwilling to delve into her long history with Marcus Kane with Clarke’s friend. The fire had withered to glowing embers, and she moved to place another log on it before it burned out completely.

“Yeah,” Raven said. “Well, he’s an asshole.”

Abby raised her eyebrows as she retracted her hand from the fireplace, reaching for the iron to stoke the fire. Had Raven come to her just to vent about Marcus? She could go to Sinclair for that. Why the hell had her daughter’s friend sought her out for this conversation?

She wouldn’t argue Raven’s assertion, but…

“I wouldn’t go spreading that around, Raven,” Abby said. “Just because I’m okay with you saying it doesn’t mean…”

“Oh my God,” Raven said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “What’s the big deal? It’s not like the Victor’s Village is crowded, Abby. Are the empty houses gonna tell the Capitol on me?”

Abby sighed, placing the iron back in its original position. The fire was roaring again, which was probably a good thing considering she wouldn’t be getting sleep anytime soon.

“What did you want to tell me?” she asked, deciding it was best to change the subject completely.

“You’re not gonna like it,” Raven said. “If you hate him now, you’re gonna hate him more after this.”

“Who told you I-“ she started, but Raven didn’t let her finish.

“Come on,” she said, shadows dancing across her tanned skin in the firelight. “Clarke told me how you reacted at the funeral and at the ceremony. You’re not even being _subtle_ about how pissed off you are. But anyway, I’m here to talk about the fences.”

“The fences?” Abby asked, her brain fuzzy. Every muscle in her body screamed for her to sit down on the couch, to take the weight of her aching self off her throbbing feet. “What about the fences?”

“They’re re-electrified,” Raven said with a snarl, leaning against the wall for support. “And our _wonderful_ new Peacekeeper Kane didn’t tell Sinclair and I, which means the district generators were diverting power from other places to power the fucking fences. So that means the fancy part of town didn’t get power tonight, and I had a mob of pissed off bakers at my front door telling me how they couldn’t turn on their lights for ten seconds or some bullshit. God, the least he could have done was tell us, don’t you think? Sinclair and I could have figured out a way to distribute the power evenly or something, but now-“

Suddenly alert, it was Abby’s turn to stop Raven from talking. Not that she didn’t care about the girl’s woes, but the fences around the district being re-electrified meant something more to her than dealing with a crowd of angered citizens. If the fences were at full power again, she couldn’t go into the woods to get herbs for her medicine.

The Capitol made scant deliveries of high-end medicines every so often – thanks to her status as Jake’s widow - but they weren’t enough, and they were heavily rationed. If she used more than the allowed dose, she could be punished. That was where the herbs came in handy – in the right combination, they functioned much the same as any of the Capitol’s drugs.

“Are you sure the fences are re-electrified?” Abby said. “How do you know?”

“Sinclair I went over there after I got rid of the crowd,” Raven said. She rotated so her back lay against the wall and rested her head on the matte surface. “It’s not exactly hard to tell, Abby. The whole thing is buzzing again. Never thought I’d say it, but I miss Cray. He was creepy as hell, but at least he didn’t pull shit like this.”

A scream was working its way up Abby’s throat, and she tried to swallow it before it had a chance to escape from her lips. Why would Thelonious choose to charge the fences now? He’d been mayor for years, and this was the first time he decided to follow the Capitol’s regulations to the letter? No, this wasn’t mayor Thelonious Jaha’s doing.

This was Marcus Kane. A flash of searing rage coursed through her as she pursed her lips and clenched her fists. Of course Marcus Kane would find a way to ruin everything she’d worked for.

“I thought you should know,” Raven said, and Abby saw her anger reflected in Raven’s eyes. 

“I’m going to do something about this,” Abby said firmly, and Raven’s look changed from anger to concern.

“Look, I didn’t come over here to start a rebellion-“

“No, but something needs to be done.”

“What do you think they should have done, put it to a vote? This isn’t a democracy, Abby.”

Her gaze shifted to Jake’s picture, sitting on top of the mantle, and as she looked at his warm smile and felt the weight of his ring on the chain around her neck she asked herself a question that became all too familiar to her over the past few months.

_What would you do? What would you tell me to do?_

She already knew the answer: Jake would fight it. For the good of the people in District 12, Jake would fight it.

* * *

Days in 12 were warm, but nights were frigid.

Abby pulled her jacket tightly around her torso as she made her way toward the Peacekeeper’s home, trudging through the darkened streets of the Seam with only the moonlight guiding her way. Her breath condensed into small, wispy clouds as she continued into the outskirts of the district, and if she chose to look up she would have seen a bright array of stars shining against the deep blue sky.

Abby Griffin wasn’t looking up.

Abby Griffin was looking ahead.

Getting emotional wasn’t going to solve the problem, but using logic might. Marcus was selfish and cold, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. And while his to-the-letter adherence to the law was intensely annoying, Abby hoped he could see reason instead of choosing to keep his Peacekeeper blinders on.

It took a half hour for her to reach his home from the Victor’s Village, a small mansion swathed in pine trees and isolation. She only knew of its location because she traveled to treat Cray many times for alcohol-related injuries and illnesses. Those weren’t fond memories (he tried to hit on her several times, although the sleaze knew fully well she was _married_ ) but she almost would’ve rather been going to see Cray than going to see Marcus.

She knew how to handle Cray. Marcus Kane was a variable, a wild card, and his unpredictability made her heart harden to him more than it already had. She needed the fences powered down, but something told her it wouldn’t be a simple process to convince him of that necessity. Especially because what she and Clarke were doing was technically illegal. But no one asked questions when she healed a feverish 10-year-old or cured the mayor’s son.

The lights were still on in the downstairs of his home, and she made the assumption he was awake despite the lateness of the hour. Not that it mattered whether or not he was awake: if he weren’t, she would have woken him up. A discussion needed to be had, and she wasn’t going to wait until the morning to speak with him.

Fighting valiantly against her anger and a surge of turbulent emotions, Abby reached out and rang the doorbell. She heard it echo inside the house, heard the pattering of footsteps, and seconds later the front door opened to reveal a slightly disheveled-looking, utterly shocked Marcus Kane. His attire revealed he wasn’t expecting visitors: he wore a black t-shirt and sweatpants, far from his official attire. They all bore the Capitol logo, a symbol that made Abby feel like vomiting.

“Abby?” he muttered, squinting into the darkness as if he thought she were a hallucination. She was _very_ real, as he was about to find out.

“Peacekeeper Kane,” she said, keeping her voice level, trying not to reveal the anger that surged through her veins with every beat of her heart. “We need to talk.”

“It’s late,” he said, still not inviting her in. Annoyed, she pushed past him into the house. “Can this wait until morning?”

“No,” Abby said sternly. “We’re going to talk about this now.”

She looked at him for a split second and glimpsed something unexpected: guilt. It flickered in his eyes, hid in his rigid posture, then vanished as quickly as it appeared, but it was there. Did he think she’d come to talk about their past?

Abby had no interest in discussing what happened between her, him, and Jake. She had no interest in discussing how he betrayed them all when he went to work for the Capitol. She had no interest in discussing his superiority complex, his arrogance, how she couldn’t find the boy she once knew in the man that stood before her with something like guilt in his eyes.

If she had her way, they’d never talk about that again.

“Abby-“ he started, but afraid of the end of his sentence, she chose to speak over him.

“I’m here to talk about the fences,” she said. “The ones around the edges of the district.”

Caught off guard, he frowned for a moment in the dim light.

“What about them?” he asked. His nonchalance made her blood boil. _You know ‘what about them’, you narcissistic…_

“They’re re-electrified,” Abby said, practically seething with anger as he leaned against the wooden railing and crossed his arms. Two could play at this game. “You didn’t tell anyone you were powering them again.”

“They should never have been turned off,” he responded rapidly, ever the enforcer of the law. “Cray was negligent. He should have informed the Capitol of that problem years ago.”

Abby took a deep breath, summoning what little patience she had left as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“People are angry, Kane,” she said. “They don’t get electricity often. They blamed the head mechanic and his assistant for what happened.”

“I expected that,” he said with a shrug. “But practices need to be modified. The traditions here aren’t up to Capitol standards. Mayor Jaha and I intend to change that.”

Jaw clenched, she employed the last reserves of logic and restraint she had.

"You’ll have people rioting outside your door when they realize what you did,” she said, hoping her statement sounded like a fact rather than a threat. “Electrifying the fences without telling them wasn’t just uninformed, it was dangerous. Do you know how many children could have been injured if they didn’t recognize the signs?”

“And were any children hurt, Abby?” he asked, the expression on her face giving away her answer. He smiled his smug little smirk, and Abby wished she could punch it off his pale face. They stood together in silence for a few moments, an explosive mix of triumphant and enraged.

“The Capitol doesn’t care about District 12,” she said, stepping into his personal space, unable to hold back the gale-force rage that overtook her. Everything about him set her off: the way his hair was slicked back, the way he smiled at her so patronizingly, the way he stared at her like she was a small child incapable of making a coherent argument. “They never have. Your new job, all your adherence to the law…it doesn’t change that.”

If her words had any effect, it wasn’t visible. Instead he shifted his position so he stood only inches away from her, their foreheads almost touching. Briefly, she remembered the last time they’d been this close. The words they’d exchanged then. The way things ended. She didn’t regret anything she said, but it wasn’t a pleasant memory.

“You’re wrong,” Marcus snarled, his eyes flashing with indignation. “District 12 is more important than you could ever understand.”

“Oh, really?” she said with a snort. Now that she’d gotten a reaction out of him, she couldn’t stop. Marcus glared at her for a few moments, the ticking of a clock on the wall speaking for him as he gathered his next argument.

“Do you think I didn’t know you and Clarke go into the woods?” he said, raising his eyebrows, and Abby’s blood ran cold. _How does he know?_

He won the argument, and from the look in his eyes he understood it was over. Marcus Kane had her trapped: she couldn’t confirm their personal involvement, and she couldn’t keep arguing for the fences without betraying their agenda. Abby pursed her lips and shooting him a withering glare, turning to leave without saying another word.

But he couldn’t resist adding one last line.

“I wouldn’t try to go back out there if I were you,” he said. “I don’t want to have to lash you for breaking the law. And I certainly don’t want to lash Clarke.”

The mention of her daughter’s name had her seeing red, and she spun around to face him again before her hand touched the doorknob. _How dare you. How dare you bring her into this._

“Are you threatening me, Kane?” she asked in a low whisper, accentuating every syllable.

“I’m reminding you what the law states,” he said, matching her tone. “It seems you’ve forgotten.”

“At least I’m not in denial,” she spat, clenching her fists. “You think you’re important. That Jaha needs you to keep things running, that the Capitol cares about what you’re doing. But you’re ignoring the truth.”

Marcus regarded her for a long moment, the right corner of his mouth quirking upward. Encouraging her.

“You’re as insignificant now as you were when you lived in the Seam,” she said. “And all the fancy titles and jobs in Panem can’t change that. No matter where you go or what you do, you’ll always be a boy from District 12. So, go ahead and enforce your laws. I’ll keep doing what’s right, because it seems you’ve forgotten.”

With that she let herself out and slammed the door behind her, letting the cold night air soothe her burning cheeks.


	11. Fences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN WHICH I CONTINUE TO IGNORE CANON WHERE DAVID MILLER IS CONCERNED... :P

Over the next few months, District 12’s charter went through an overhaul. The electrifying of the fences was the first on a far longer list of changes: installing a whipping post, putting a curfew in place, shutting down the Hob, ensuring all trades performed in the district were legal, and so on. At the center of it all, was Marcus Kane.

He was well aware that the modifications in Twelve’s way of life had somehow made him even less popular than he’d been before. People glared at him in the street and talked about him behind his back – that was all they _could_ do, for fear of punishment – and although he knew he was doing his job, he dealt with some rather uncomfortable mixed emotions. Couldn’t they see the changes were for their own good? If the Capitol found out about the way they’d been living before, they would have sent _armies_ of Peacekeepers instead of just him. Pike was already concerned about a rebellion, and Thelonious expressed that if they didn’t reclaim control of his district now he feared they never would. Time, it seemed, was of the essence.

But that didn’t mean Marcus relished being seen as the bad guy. Thelonious wasn’t taking the fall for any of this: people associated him with their old lifestyles and Marcus with their new ones. Since the people’s anger was directed at him and him alone, he spent most of his free time inside his house, watching broadcasts and reading Cray’s old books.

There was one thing about the whole scenario that bothered him more than the hostility, and that was the necessity of his presence in Twelve. He replayed his meeting with Pike over and over in his head, reminding himself this wasn’t a demotion, ruminating on what exactly Jake Griffin could have done to force him back to Twelve's dust and dirt.

It was another quiet evening in his quarters, much like any other, until a telephone call disrupted his routine. Marcus jolted in his seat on the couch: he hadn’t known the telephone actually _worked._ Not wanting to lose the call, he set down his glass of moonshine, sprinted into the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall, and yanked the phone from the receiver in mid-ring.

“Hello?” he said, slightly breathless.

“Marcus?” a familiar voice said, and for the first time since he arrived in Twelve Marcus felt himself smile a genuine smile.

“David?” he said, silently hoping his old friend didn’t have more bad news for him. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

“It’s good to hear you, too,” he said, voice crackling over the miles of telephone wires it took to reach across districts. “Don’t worry, I’m just calling to catch up. They installed a new phone here last week, and now I finally have numbers for all the other Peacekeepers. You’re in Twelve now?”

“That’s a long story,” Marcus said abruptly, uncertain how many of the details were able to be shared. Thankfully, David picked up on his trepidation. _The benefits of talking to another Peacekeeper._

“You don’t have to tell me about it,” he said, and despite the technological shortcomings the understanding in his tone was evident. “I was surprised to see it, though.”

“Well, I was surprised at the reassignment,” Marcus muttered. “One second I was in Seven, and the next I was back here.”

“You grew up there,” David observed, and Marcus marveled at his old friend’s keen memory. He wouldn’t have blamed him if he forgot which district he came from, since they’d both bounced around multiple times throughout the course of their jobs. Remembering his friendship with Jake was one thing, but remembering such a specific detail about him, about _Marcus Kane_ , was another. “Aren't you a little happy to be home?”

Marcus sighed, a noise he realized probably translated as a rush of static.

“Oh,” David said. “I guess not.”

Before he could stop himself, he was telling his friend everything. He told him about Jake’s funeral, about his arrival in Twelve and Thelonious, and most of all, he told David about the people’s reaction to the changes he implemented.

Was it stupid, thoughtless to pour out his emotions to a man to whom he hadn’t spoken for 24 years? Possibly. But Marcus had had one glass of moonshine too many to be bothering with filtering which thoughts should exit through his lips, and talking to someone who didn’t completely despise him was damningly therapeutic.

“They all think I’m the bad guy,” he said, rubbing his hand over his jaw. It wasn’t meant to invoke pity: it was a statement of fact. “But I’m the one doing what it takes to keep this place going.”

“You’re following orders,” David affirmed. “Eventually, they’ll see that. Does your friend – Abby - still live there? Does she understand what you’re trying to do?”

Marcus leaned against the peeling wallpaper, resting his head against the flat surface. Suddenly everything was spinning, his stomach flipped, and he had to force a deep breath through his lungs. In his earlier recollections to his friend, the only thing he left out was her.

How could he explain Abigail Griffin to a man thousands of miles away? How could he explain the bad blood between them now, the bitter arguments they had, the stares she gave him as if she wished she could turn him into the coal dust that dissipated across the cracked earth with each gust of wind?

“She…” he started, his train of thought derailing itself further with every syllable he spoke. “She’s not exactly receptive.”

“Have you tried to talk to her?” David asked. Heart pounding, Marcus had to remind himself he didn’t know about the arguments. David didn’t know about the various thorny statements they traded on a daily basis, or the way Abby tried to go over his head to Thelonious to get things she wanted. _I can’t talk to her. Not anymore._

“Talking to her isn’t a good idea,” he said solemnly, wondering how low his mood could sink before he collapsed of emotional exhaustion. “She’s moved on with her life, and so have I.”

“Okay,” he said after a long pause. Marcus sensed the man on the other end of the line knew he’d struck a nerve. “I just knew you reacted to Jake, and wondered if you guys were friends again. Sorry I asked.”

Silently, guiltily, Marcus berated himself for pushing away yet another person who made the mistake of caring about him.

“Don’t apologize,” he said quickly, hoping his reaction hadn’t shoved David Miller away for good. “You didn’t know.”

“I should’ve, though,” David replied, a note of humor in his tone. “She was always a sensitive subject for you.”

An image of a tarnished silver pin and a few yellowed, unanswered letters flashed through his mind. He cringed. _Some things never change._

“She’s more of a headache for me now,” he admitted, remembering the night she showed up at his house to argue about the fences. Through his blurred recollections he recounted the story as best he could. When he finished, his friend was laughing loudly enough to force Marcus to hold the phone away from his ear for nearly half a minute.

“Wow,” he said, still chuckling minutes later. “She’s not exactly the Capitol’s darling anymore, is she?”

“I don’t think she ever was,” Marcus said. In his heart he knew it was true: Abby Griffin never belonged to the Capitol. She played their game for years in interviews and public appearances with Jake, but she was never one of them. Desperate for a change of subject, he asked, “How are things in 11?”

“I can’t complain,” he said. “Nate’s been telling me he wants to be a Peacekeeper when he’s old enough to apply, but I keep trying to change his mind. If we’d known what we were getting into, do you think we would’ve still done it?”

“Nate?” Marcus stammered, the realization of how removed he’d become from his friend’s life hit him like a splash of cold water in the face. “Who’s Nate?”

“My son,” he answered.

_Oh._

Marcus had told himself a thousand times he didn’t want kids - they were a distraction from his job, from the opportunities the Capitol had given him, from carrying out orders in reasonable amounts of time – and to have them, usually a relationship was a requirement. Thus, the reason for his change in demeanor: Marcus hadn’t had a serious relationship since Callie.

Five or six years ago, Callie Cartwig had been the Capitol government’s version of Marcus Kane, or so it seemed. She was determined to do what was necessary for her people. She was rising rapidly in the ranks, making her way toward the highest offices. She had a knack for knowing what to do in any situation presented to her, whether it was vanquishing a small rebellion or releasing information to the Capitol press in the right way and at the right time.

Marcus met her at a pre-Games party in the Capitol, an elaborate affair that District 7’s mayor had all but dragged him to because he needed a familiar face in the crowd of genetically altered partygoers. Marcus didn’t like parties – they were too noisy, too needlessly elaborate, too _fake_ – and wanted to leave as soon as his shoes touched the trendy tye-dye carpet that was all the rage that year.

He despised the Games, too, although he never would’ve told a soul. They were part of the law, written into Panem’s very fabric, but he often thought they were needlessly cruel. Gathering to celebrate them felt wrong, and he felt like an idiot in his half-unbuttoned teal shirt and too-tight black pants. So he excused himself to the balcony, drink in hand, and tried to find something resembling inner peace among the city’s scintillating skyscrapers.

Instead, he found Callie.

There were obstacles both of them found less and less important as the night went on and alcohol built up in their systems. Peacekeepers weren’t supposed to be involved with government officials, or any non-Capitol sanctioned romantic relationship. Government officials weren’t supposed to be in relationships at all, really: they were meant to keep their personal lives nonexistent for the sake of focusing all their energy on Panem.

Marcus knew both of those things, he really did. But as the night turned into early morning he thought less and less about rules and more about how the black dress she was wearing hugged each of her curves and caught the light from fireworks, how intoxicating the sound of her laugh was when they decided to share an impromptu dance away from the rest of the crowd, and how her lips felt like silk when they brushed against his neck.

The apartment was large, luxurious, and the partygoers were too drunk to notice the absence of a Peacekeeper and a senator as they stumbled into a bedroom and let themselves forget what their superiors told them they owed to their country, as they discarded their jobs along with their clothes and spent a night being selfish for each other.

So Callie Cartwig became Marcus Kane’s best-kept secret, and he became hers.

For awhile, it worked. He found reasons to go to the Capitol. She found reasons to leave early from meetings. They found they didn’t agree on everything, but they were destined not to: she was from the Capitol and he from 12. They decided they didn’t care. After all, what was there to care about when the sex was amazing?

Until one night, Callie didn’t greet him by yanking him into her apartment and pressing him against the door. She didn’t say hello through the dizzying sensation of her teeth on his neck. Instead she met him with two glasses of wine, handed him one, and told him they needed to talk.

Good things first: she realized she loved him, _really_ loved him, and needed him to know that. At some point between the drinking and the sex she uncovered actual feelings, emotions she couldn’t brush aside as the aftereffects of nights spent completely lost in each other.

He leaned across the table to kiss her then (it was all happening too quickly, he hadn’t thought about his feelings for her and they weren’t something he could figure out while sitting across from her at a kitchen table in the middle of her apartment) but the conversation wasn’t over.

Bad things second: she was part of a rebellion. Her disagreement with him on Capitol issues had been a well-rehearsed act to see if she could trust him, and she was the leader of a group of rebels inside the government. In hindsight, Marcus knew there had been signs. She wouldn’t let him into her study. She was oddly defensive when the phone rang. But he hadn’t added the numbers correctly, and now he was sitting across from a woman who said she loved him with a wrong answer and a mess of jumbled emotions he didn’t know how to untangle.

Half dedicated to her and half devoted to his job, his _Capitol_ job, the job that paid him and kept him from the coal mines and saved his mother’s life, he did the only thing he knew how to do: he ran.

To her credit, she didn’t chase him. She wasn’t desperate or clingy. When he caught a train back to Seven after spending a night wandering the Capitol streets instead of between her sheets, he didn’t return home to receive a sobbing phone call from her. Callie Cartwig, he guessed, had bigger and better things to aspire to, or so he thought.

Until one night, months later, he made the mistake of picking up the phone.

“Marcus,” she said. “Don’t say anything.”

“Callie?” he stammered against her request, trying to work out whether or not he was happy to hear her voice. Could you be happy to hear from someone you weren’t sure whether or not you’d ever loved? From someone you left sitting alone in her apartment, confessions of adoration still burning on her lips?

“Our secret is safe with me,” she said, voice steady and determined. “Just so you know.” She hung up without waiting for a response.

A few months later, when news broke that ten government officials had been arrested and executed for treason, Marcus looked down the list and read Callie Cartwig’s name. A sadness washed over him that he couldn’t quite explain, and the bile that rose from his throat tasted like wasted opportunities and wasted time.

And that was Marcus Kane’s last serious relationship, none of which was suitable to talk to David Miller about. Especially not when the topic of conversation was his son, who not only _existed_ but was thinking about becoming a Peacekeeper.

“That’s wonderful,” Marcus said, forcing the tide of bad memories down. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

“Well, I didn’t know you were reassigned to 12,” David said, taking the confusion in stride. “There’s a lot we don’t know about each other now, Kane.”

Marcus nodded. “We should talk more often, then. It sounds like your life is more fun than mine,” he said with a smile, a fraction of their banter from training returning.

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Do you want to talk at the same time next week?”

His smile changed to a full-blown grin.

“I’d like that.”

“Good luck managing your district,” David said. “I hope your people start behaving.”

“I’m not holding my breath.”

“Good.”

Then the line went silent.

As he trudged back to his familiar spot on the end of the couch and picked up his glass of bourbon, the haze of alcohol in his head parted enough for him to remember David's question. _If we had known what we were getting ourselves into, do you think we would have still done it?_

He sighed into the brown liquid, preparing himself to either drink himself to sleep or spend the night with open eyes.

_If I’d known what I was getting myself into, would I have still done it?_

***

“Are you tracking me, Kane?” Abby asked, tilting her chin up to meet his eyes. He could tell she was angry from the way her eyes flashed, her back went rigid. _Just another day._

The simple answer: yes, he was tracking her. She’d been too close to the fences (as per the Laws of Panem, civilians were to be at least 50 feet away from the electric boundary at all times) for the third time this week.

It was the early morning on Monday.

He considered himself a morning person, but Abby Griffin was exhausting him. Was she making his life harder on purpose, or was she so deep in her own agenda that she didn’t consider the consequences her actions had on other people?

Today he found her mere inches away from a section of the fence, almost as if she were examining it. Why the hell would she do that? There were no weaknesses in the structure. If she thought she’d find one, she was wasting her time. 

“I’m tracking everybody, Abby,” he responded with a smirk, hoping a dose of superiority early in the week would keep her away from things that could electrocute her. She rolled her eyes.

“Why am I not surprised?”

It was a question phrased as a statement, and Marcus compelled to ask one of his own.

“What’s the bag for?”

She was clutching a small satchel made of linen, the same one he’d seen Clarke carrying on his first day as Twelve’s Peacekeeper.

“I’m delivering medicine,” Abby said, turning away from the fence to walk back toward the houses that littered the outskirts of the district.

“It looks like it’s empty,” he said, raising his eyebrows as he followed her. _What_ were _you doing out here, Abby?_

“It’s empty because I’m done with my deliveries,” she said, her long blue coat blowing behind her in the breeze. “You’re welcome to accompany me next time I make house calls.”

The look on her face told him he wasn’t welcome at all, but he couldn’t resist.

“Certainly,” he said. She stopped walking for a few seconds to gape at him, openmouthed, wall of composure shattered.

She rebuilt it soon after, continuing to walk and answering him with, “If you go with me, you’ll have to be inoculated. These people are sick, and we can’t have our Peacekeeper catching the flu.”

_Needles._

He gave an involuntary shiver, although the morning was anything but cold. Marcus hated needles. He had hated them when he was very young, he continued hating them when he was in training, and he wholeheartedly hated them now. They were needlessly painful, frigid to the touch, and the injection site hurt for days afterward and rendered his arm next to useless. In his opinion, there was nothing quite as painful as being stuck with a needle. With all the Capitol’s advanced technology, he thought by now they would have been able to come up with a more pleasant alternative.

From the smirk that crossed Abby’s face, an expression backlit by the rising sun, he could tell she knew she won the battle. Apparently, not all of her memories of their childhood had disappeared.

“That’s…” he paused, and she turned to him expectantly. She still hadn’t dropped her triumphant smile, and Marcus could feel his blood pressure rising. If he could just get over his phobia of those useless instruments for one day, he could prove her wrong and wipe that arrogant little smile off her face.

“That’s okay,” he finished, full to the brim with self-loathing. 

He turned around to go back toward the fence, curious as to what she’d been doing. “Medicine deliveries” at six in the morning on a Monday didn’t seem realistic, but he learned he had to pick his battles with her if he wanted to have a prayer of winning. As he approached the section of the fence where she’d been standing, he acknowledged he was okay with losing this one.

The fence hummed with electricity, serving its purpose, and the closer Marcus ventured the more confused he became. Why had she been so close to this section of the boundary? There was nothing different here than in any of the other sections: the wire was stretched the same, the metal rods on either side were no more rusted than any of the other areas.

So why was Abby Griffin concerned with this one?

“Watch out,” a voice declared from behind him, ladled with both confidence and a heaping of attitude. “Get any closer, and that thing will fry your ass.” Under her breath, he heard her mutter, “Not that that would be a bad thing…”

“Raven!” another exclaimed, older, male. His tone was disapproving, but he laughed.

Marcus sighed, turning around to face the pair. “Good morning,” he said. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The man extended a hand and put on a friendly smile. He couldn’t have been older than Marcus himself, and wore a patched denim jacket that had probably been handed down through generations of mechanics.

“Jacapo Sinclair,” he said as Marcus shook his hand. “But you can call me Sinclair. This is Raven Reyes, my assistant.”

“What’s up?” the girl, Raven, said. Marcus had no clue how to respond to _that_ , so he just nodded. Her arms were crossed over her tight-fitting tank top, and she glared at him in the same manner as Abby had. _What did I do to offend you?_

Then he remembered Abby’s comment a month ago: _they blamed the mechanic and his assistant._

Mechanic: Sinclair. Assistant: Raven. Sinclair appeared to have forgiven him for the incident, but Raven looked to still be upset about it. Unless he’d done something else to anger them, which, given his lack of popularity with the citizens of Twelve, wouldn’t have surprised him.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said. Sinclair nodded. Raven glared.

Marcus tried a different tactic, changing the topic of conversation completely.

“Why are you working on the fence today?” he asked. “Shouldn’t someone have told me it was scheduled for maintenance?”

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Raven mumbled. “Not being informed.”

She was _definitely_ still angry about the fence.

“We apologize, sir,” Sinclair said. “We’re still getting used to the new rules. In the future, we’ll check with you first. But we need to run some tests to be sure the structure is safe. If it’s operating above or below its power capacity…”

“I understand,” Marcus said, needing no further explanation. He was bothered that they hadn’t followed protocol, but doubted the oversight had been intentional. They did have a lot of new laws to get used to, and once in a while smaller ones were bound to slip through the cracks. “Just don’t let it happen again, all right?”

“Yes sir,” Sinclair said.

Raven kept glaring. “Whatever,” she said, taking a keen interest in her fingernails and avoiding making eye contact.

“Thank you,” Marcus said. “Both of you. You’re helping keep the district safe.”

And with that he turned and walked away, still pondering Abby’s mysterious infatuation with the electrified barbed wire.


	12. Explosions

“Guys, we’re good to go.”

Raven’s voice crackled over Abby’s radio, and she gave a sigh of relief.

“You’re sure he’s gone?” Clarke asked, needing further reassurance. Abby reached over and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

“Well, he walked away ten minutes ago and he hasn’t been back,” Raven said. Abby could visualize her eye-roll clearly through the speaker. “I don’t know what he does all day, but he isn’t here.”

“Good,” Clarke said. “We don’t have much time, Raven.”

“Then shut up and let me work.”

The silence was deafening as the transmissions halted, and Clarke gave her mother a nervous glance. The plan to de-electrify a section of the fence was almost entirely hers (except for Raven and Sinclair, who agreed to help with its implementation), but she counted on Abby for support and guidance.

They’d come up with the final version of the idea together, and the mechanics agreed to help without hesitation. Medicine was something the district truly needed, and even Sinclair agreed that Kane didn’t understand what he’d done by re-electrifying the boundary. So Abby dusted off Jake’s old radio – a gift from one of his friends in the Capitol - and Raven worked on the technical side of things.

“I wasn’t counting on him showing up,” Clarke said, worry etched in the faint lines on her face. “Doesn’t he usually meet with Jaha on Monday mornings?”

“Usually,” Abby affirmed while still staring at the radio.

Marcus wasn’t the only one who’d been doing some tracking. Necessity dictated it – their Peacekeeper couldn’t be around when Raven and Sinclair tampered with the wires – but she certainly didn’t relish attempting to piece together his schedule when she had multiple patients waiting to see her and no medicine to give them. Thankfully he was a creature of habit, and it didn’t take long to find patterns in his daily life.

As much as Clarke’s loyalties lay with her mother, Abby knew breaking the rules weighed heavily on her; perhaps more heavily than it did on Abby herself. Her friendship with Wells was becoming more strained by the day. She hadn’t included her closest friend in the plan to de-electrify a section of the fence, and Abby was all but certain he’d noticed a change in her behavior. It was difficult for them to remain as inseparable as they’d once been, as age and differences of opinion slowly pulled them from each other’s side.

Thinking of their Peacekeeper, Abby reflected that she knew better than most how old friends changed with time.

“Hey,” Abby said, giving her daughter’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Raven knows what she’s doing. This will work.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Clarke said, turning to face her. The anxiety in her blue eyes had morphed into fear, and the expression made Abby’s heart sink. Not for the first time, she wished she’d thought of the idea to spare Clarke her involvement.

“’It will,” Abby reassured her with a nod. She had to believe it would. Otherwise they’d be back at the start again, and as much as she hated to admit it a part of her realized Marcus caught on to them this morning. She’d been careless, hadn’t made sure he was in his meeting, and the price they paid was his suspicion.

“What do you think the punishment for powering down the fences is?” Clarke asked. “What do you think he’d do to Raven and Sinclair if they get caught?”

An unspoken third question echoed: _what would he do to us?_

Abby was no expert on the Capitol’s system of discipline, but she knew enough to surmise it wouldn’t be pleasant. While the whipping post in the center of the district had yet to be used, she wouldn’t put it past Kane to use it if he received word of what the mechanics were _really_ doing at the fence.

She wasn’t going to say any of that to Clarke, although from the hollow look in the 17-year-old’s eyes, she already knew. But that was the beautiful thing about her daughter: much like her father, she understood the consequences and accepted them for the good of her people. She embraced risk if it meant others could lead a better life.

And standing there in the early morning sunlight, hovering over a radio and a sink full of medical tools to be cleaned, Abby Griffin had never been more proud of her daughter.

“It’s going to be okay,” Abby said. “We don’t have to worry about that.”

Clarke’s look radiated skepticism, but she didn’t press Abby any further. Instead they busied themselves with cleaning tools and dishes and placing them back in the correct cabinets, telling themselves everything would be okay as they stared out the window.

An hour passed, and no word came from Raven.

“This is taking too long,” Clarke said. “We should have heard something by now.”

As if on cue, the radio crackled.

“Guys, something’s wrong,” Raven said, sounding more annoyed than afraid. _Shit._ Abby answered before her daughter could open her mouth.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. The last word in Raven’s statement gave her heart permission to jump into her throat, and silently she prepared herself for the worst. This wasn’t just about medicine anymore: this was about keeping her daughter safe.

“I think he must have increased the voltage since I started testing this thing,” Raven replied. “Sinclair and I have been trying to make it work for the last hour, but it’s not even making a dent in the current.”

Raven explained her creation – a small chip she planned on placing on the outside edge of the first rod – to be something like a sponge. Supposedly, it would soak up the current from the wires on the lower level of the fence and transfer it through the ones higher up. She’d measured carefully to ensure the amount of power wouldn’t fry the wires at the top, but it was all based on a series of calculations revolving around the voltage of the unit as a whole.

Apparently, Marcus adjusted the voltage since the inception of their idea two weeks ago. They were limited in how many times they could approach the fence because of Kane’s tracking system, and only Raven and Sinclair knew how to measure the current, which left half of their group useless. It wasn’t the best strategy, but it was all they had.

All they had wasn’t enough. Not against Marcus Kane.

“Sorry, Clarke,” Raven said, and Abby heard something rare for Raven Reyes in her voice: genuine remorse. Beneath her cocky, self-assured exterior, there was a girl who wanted to do the right thing. Another reason Clarke admired her, Abby surmised. “I’ll work on it at work today. I don’t think I can fix it here, but I shouldn’t have to start from scratch.”

“It’s fine, Raven,” Clarke answered, moving into position so her friend could hear her. “It’s not your fault. We’ll figure it out.”

“Yeah,” Raven replied, a note of her trademark humor returning. “Have I said how much I _hate_ that guy?”

Abby and Clarke exchanged a look.

 _You’re not the only one,_ Abby thought, concern turning to exasperation.

“We can try again later tonight,” Abby said, and her daughter looked at her with raised eyebrows and parted lips. Clearly, she thought they’d take time to regroup. But the number of ill in the district was rising rapidly, and Abby knew they didn’t have time to lose.

“Hell yeah,” Raven said. “You know I love a challenge.” 

***

The problem with using medicine deliveries as an excuse to examine the wall, Abby came to realize, was that it made _actual_ deliveries appear improbable. Not that there was much to deliver, but she wouldn’t retract whatever meager assistance she could offer no matter how many laws Marcus Kane imposed upon her.

The brown grass flattened beneath her well-worn boots as she made her way back home, successful in aiding each of her patients, when her eyes fell on something that made her wish she hadn’t left the house again today. _Goddammit._

“Abby,” Marcus yelled, close enough that she couldn’t pretend not to hear him, which had been her only decent plan for avoiding him. What was he doing in the Seam on the middle of a Monday? Tracking her, probably.

“What?” she asked sharply, making no attempt to spare any feelings he might or might not have. Raven had a theory that Kane was nothing more than a Capitol muttation sent to enforce the law and ruin their lives, and that he wasn’t really a human being.

“I bet he goes home at night to recharge,” she’d said bitterly once over dinner with Clarke and her. “I mean, have either of you actually seen him eat? Sleep?”

Clarke had shaken her head, a faint smile quirking the ends of her lips upward. If Abby hadn’t known him as a child, she might have been tempted to believe Raven’s hypothesis. But if Raven knew about Abby’s history with their Peacekeeper, she might not let it go – not if she thought she could weaponize it and use it to their advantage – so Clarke and Abby kept that knowledge to themselves.

He jogged to catch up to her and she stifled a groan. _Here we go again._

“This is the second time you’ve been to the Seam today,” he observed with a smirk. “Is there an outbreak I should be concerned about?”

_If there was, we’d all be screwed thanks to you._

But what if…what if she could make him believe he needed to stay away?

“Well,” she started, “Actually-“

_Boom!_

The ground shook beneath their feet, houses trembled on their weak foundations, and a cloud of dust sprang up from the Earth to swallow the district whole. The rest of her sentence was swallowed by the impact.

Abby stumbled slightly, the tremor catching her off-guard. Marcus grabbed her upper arm, steadying her, and she shrugged him off almost instantly.

“What the hell was that?” he asked through a fit of coughs, squinting to see her through the dust-clogged air. Abby swallowed hard, trying not to breathe in.

“The mines,” she said. “Don’t you remember what an explosion’s like? Or have you chosen to forget that, too?”

She had little patience for Marcus’ selective memory at a time like this. Mine explosions were horrible, dangerous accidents, and her help would be needed at the scene. Abandoning all pretense of composure, she sprinted toward the entrance to the mines and prepared herself for whatever she might see once she arrived.

Together they ran through the streets, the smell of smoke drawing tears to their eyes. It was less than five minutes before they made it to the entrance, where friends and family members had gathered to ensure their loved ones were unharmed.

Annoyance pushed Abby’s lips into a firm line, and she stared at Marcus as he took in the smoking wreckage around them. She couldn’t resist a final comment before abandoning him to do whatever he did: she had a job to do, and now was when her people needed her to do it most.

“Do you still think powering the fences was a good idea?” she asked snidely, thinking of all the patients who wouldn’t have medicine because of his stubborn adherence to the goddamn Capitol law. She knew he understood her meaning, and she hoped her words hit him where it hurt.

For a moment, for one, single heartbeat, he looked at her and said nothing at all. His face was set in stone but his eyes reflected the pain he felt in those around him, in the hearts of the citizens who cried over their loved ones’ uncertain fate. In that second, with chaos erupting and dust swirling, he was the boy she’d once known.

Then the moment passed.

“Laws must be followed,” he said sternly, and his gaze hardened.

Disgusted, Abby turned away from him and made her way into the heart of darkness, making steady progress until she nearly collided with a familiar face: Sinclair. Abby Griffin wanted nothing more than to give him a tight hug and give thanks that he was all right, but Doctor Abby Griffin knew there wasn’t enough time.

“Sinclair,” she said, noting the layers of grime that coated his tanned face. _Did he crawl out of there himself?_ “Are you okay?”

He shook his head, frantic, and Abby grabbed his arm to prevent him from diving back into the smoldering wreckage.

“Raven,” he said, voice a desolate whisper. “I can’t find Raven!”

_Oh, no._

“Sinclair, I need you to tell me if you’re okay first,” Abby said, fighting back a wave of personal concern she was supposed to be able to separate from her job as a doctor. _Not Raven, please, not Raven…_

“I’m okay,” Sinclair breathed, trying to pull away from her grip. “But Raven-“

“Was she down there with you?” Abby asked,

Sinclair did what Abby fervently hoped he wouldn’t do: he nodded.

“I have to go back for her,” he said through a fit of coughs. “I thought she made it out…I never would have left her…”

_Not Raven, please, not Raven._

Other miners were gathering the injured away from the site of the accident, and Abby glimpsed Wells and Clarke helping move them to safety. For now that was all that could be done, as Marcus ordered the District’s citizens into teams and they began clearing the splintered planks and rubble.

“Are you sure she’s not here?” Abby asked, looking around and hoping against all hope that she saw a girl with a brown ponytail and dark eyes bounding toward them from some corner of the crowd her eyes hadn’t scanned, ready with a sarcastic remark and her trademark sass.

“She’s not here,” Sinclair said. “Abby, there has to be something we can do. I’m not leaving her there.”

Abby glanced over at the crowd clearing the wreckage. They were efficient but not fast, and it might be hours before they managed to get everything hauled away and reorganized.

Raven Reyes might not have that long.

_There has to be another way._

“Sinclair,” Abby said, determined. She relinquished her grip on his arm. “Go help Clarke with the wounded. Tell her not to worry, and I’ll be back soon.”

A plan was forming – not a complete idea, not yet – but it was better than anything she’d thought of until then. It was stupid. It was reckless. It was assuredly, undoubtedly illegal. It was exactly the kind of thing Jake would have done.

Sinclair gaped at her for a few moments, putting two and two together to realize where her mind was going.

“Abby, you can’t,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“ _Go_ ,” she told him, unwilling to waste valuable time arguing with each other. “I’ll be fine.”

“Be careful,” Sinclair said.

There was only one flaw in her plan, one she hadn’t considered before she was too close to the clearing team to escape notice: Marcus was at the front of the line. Not that it mattered, really. Whether or not Marcus Kane saw what happened was irrelevant, when there were hundreds of other citizens on the scene. If she was going to be punished, she was going to be punished. Provided she survived.

She’d have to enter from the side, where he wouldn’t see her approaching. With any luck that wouldn’t put her too far from Raven; if she was all the way on the other side, there would be complications to say the least.

Hovering for a brief moment by the gaping hole where a doorway should have been, she heard a faint clanking coming from beneath the ground. _She’s down there. She has to be._

“Abby, don’t!” Marcus roared, but Abby was too far away to hear the desperation in his voice, to see the sheer panic in his eyes. With a deep breath and one last glance in her daughter’s direction, she lowered herself into the smoldering wreckage that had once been a mine.

_I’m coming, Raven. Hold on._

The first thing she noticed wasn’t the intensified smell of smoke or the metal rods that dug into her skin as she made her way toward the clanking noise she’d heard on the surface.

It was the heat.

Abby knew that coal _burned_ – that was its entire purpose for being – but knowing that on a superficial level and applying that knowledge to a mine collapse were two entirely different things. Sweat pooled at her hairline and stung as it dripped from her eyelashes and into her eyes. She winced as her hand touched a rod that heated up in the blast, and the doctor in her knew that would leave a sizeable burn.

But the clanking was still sounding, and even if it wasn’t Raven, she had to reach the source. So she gathered her courage as the scalding air set her lungs on fire and kept crawling, wincing as wooden planks embedded her with splinters. This was the right direction, she knew, because the sound was getting louder, more intense with every inch she crawled, she was only a few feet away…

And there, half-submerged under what once had been a table at which the miners ate lunch, lay a sooty, burned, but very much _alive_ Raven Reyes.

“Raven?” Abby yelled, but her voice came out as a whisper instead of an exclamation. Raven stopped banging on the metal beam above her head, turning to find the person who said her name. In the dim light, Abby glimpsed her eyes widen.

“Abby?” she whispered through gritted teeth. “How…”

“That doesn’t matter,” Abby said firmly, closing the gap between them until she perched on a piece of scrap metal next to the young mechanic. Her heart hurt to see Clarke’s friend like this, so battered and bruised, a fresh wound open on her forehead. _No one should have to endure this._ “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Raven winced, and Abby thought she saw tears in her eyes.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she said with trembling lips, and with five words Abby Griffin’s plan became exponentially more difficult.

It rested on the idea that Raven would be able to at least partially support herself to be able to climb out of the wreckage, but as Abby examined the girl, pale and trembling under the weight of the table and her symptoms, she knew her original agenda was no longer viable. Not to mention what those symptoms implied…

Of course, what she thought and what she said to the 19-year-old mechanic were two different things.

“That’s okay, honey,” she whispered soothingly instead of voicing her concerns, reaching forward to push the girl’s matted hair out of her tear-filled eyes. “They’re clearing the wreckage now. They’ll get to us soon.”

“Do you really…think so?” Raven asked. Abby lost track of how far down she’d crawled to get to Raven. In truth, she didn’t know how far above them the work crew was, or if they’d be consumed by flames before they managed to reach them.

More things she wouldn’t share with Raven. Not right now.

“I know it,” Abby said, trying to ignore the temperature rising around her as the zippers on her jacket scalded her skin. “We just have to hold on. I’m right here, Raven. I’m here.”

They were quiet for a few minutes, preserving their words for a time when they might be needed more. Abby faced the reality that the final face she glimpsed might not be that of her daughter, as she’d always thought, but that of Raven Reyes. If she managed to get her out of here, it would be worth it.

And if the worst that came from today was that she saw Jake again, that wouldn’t be the worst thing either. His ring was a circle of fire around her neck, setting fire to the area just below her collarbones, but she’d never take it off. If today was the day she died, she’d walk into the beyond with her husband’s ring around her neck.

Raven coughed something, and Abby strained to understand her smoke-laden words. After a second attempt, she made sense of it.

“Sinclair?” Raven asked, and Abby smiled despite the situation in which they found themselves.

“He’s okay,” she said, and Raven smiled in return. “He made it out.”

Raven reached out a hand to her, and Abby took it in one of her own. She didn’t want to think about the dire conditions that reduced the normally self-assured mechanic to a need for human contact, but her coal dust-coated grip was comforting.

Silence surrounded them on all sides, and Abby began to wonder if the men had given up working for today. _Wouldn’t that be like Marcus, to give up once I’m trapped down here? One less thing he has to worry about._ Not to mention that it was no secret the second-highest person on the list of people in the district who despised him was none other than assistant mechanic Raven Reyes. If he called off the search, she’d almost understand.

Then Raven’s grip began loosening in hers.

“Hey,” Abby said firmly. “Raven, wake up.”

The girl moaned, coughed, and made a noise that sounded frighteningly close to a sob. All encouraging signs from a medical standpoint – she was still able to do those things, but Abby suspected blood loss was taking a toll on her. Not for the first time, she wished she could free Raven herself. Another thing she hadn’t taken into account before jumping headfirst into the smoldering ruins: the concept that Raven might be trapped under something too heavy for her to lift.

But they’d come too far, she thought, to give up now.

“Raven, hey,” Abby repeated. “Open your eyes, honey. You have to open your eyes.”

Her eyelids opened a fraction, and that was good enough for Doctor Griffin until she heard her next words.

“Tell me…that poem…” Raven croaked, and Abby’s blood ran cold. _No, Raven. Please, not that one._

“What poem?” Abby asked, feigning ignorance although she knew only one poem their memories shared.

“The one you read…at Jake’s funeral,” Raven whispered. “Please, Abby.”

“I’m not losing you today,” Abby yelled in an angered whisper, although whom her rage was directed at was a mystery. Marcus, for leaving them here? The Capitol, for limiting her ability to help her people and for what they’d done to Jake? Herself, for letting him get on that train a year ago?

Tears began to find their way down her cheeks and parting the grime embedded in them. It was hot, so unbearably hot, but she still had hope.

“Please.”

Raven opened her eyes fully for a fraction of a second, exposing her brown irises just long enough to meet Abby’s. There was so much pain there, so much fear, but Abby found strength inside them, too. Raven wasn’t done fighting. But she wanted to hear the poem, and no matter how much it pained her, she’d honor that request.

“In peace, may you leave this shore.”

The rubble above them started to shift, and faintly, Abby wondered if Marcus hadn’t called the clearing team off at all.

“In love, may you find the next.”

Raven’s eyes slipped closed again, her breathing slowing. She paused the poem to give her shoulders a desperate shake. _How much blood has she lost?_

“Raven, stay with me.”

The young girl gave a nearly inaudible wince, parting her cracked lips only to whisper, “Keep going.”

The rubble moved again, twisting before her eyes as the heat became unbearable. Some logical part of her knew they only had minutes before they’d meet their unpleasant fate. Some hopeful part of her denied that assertion.

“Safe passage on your travels, until our final journey to the ground.”

Raven’s hand slipped from hers as the darkened sky of metal and wood opened above them. She was still breathing, shallowly, her rib cage rising only millimeters underneath her torn jacket. Abby held on to the frayed shambles of her strength, summoning her resolve for the last words.

“May we meet again.”

In a cloud of dust the lattice of rubble gave way and Abby looked up into the sunlight half-expecting to see her husband’s aqua-blue eyes and sandy hair, beckoning them into whatever came after.

Instead she looked into Marcus Kane’s soil-brown eyes and perhaps it was a byproduct of the heat, perhaps it was a side effect of the cool air rushing in to embrace her, but she was shocked by what she thought she might’ve seen flicker in them.

Relief.


	13. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE CHAPTERS. JUST SO EVERYONE KNOWS. LIKE, MY LEVEL OF HAPPINESS WITH THIS ONE IS APPROACHING FULL DORK. So...I hope you guys like it, and feel free to scream at me on tumblr or in the comments!

Abby was on fire.

Well, she wasn’t, not literally – a few more minutes in the mine and she might have been – but her skin was impossibly hot to the touch as Marcus wrapped an arm around her shoulders, another under her legs, and carried her out of danger. She wouldn’t let go of Raven so he ended up carrying her, too, and his arms nearly gave out as he set them down at a safe distance from the wreckage.

Abby looked at him for a long moment. When he was younger perhaps he would have been able to understand what was going on behind her brown eyes, spoken the language of her expressions and posture, but time and distance had rendered her foreign to him. They stood together as the remnants of the mine smoldered behind them, saying everything and nothing at all until she at last opened her mouth.

“Thank you,” she said, and Marcus nodded. _Did you really think I’d leave you there? Is that what you think of me?_

“Of course,” Marcus replied, not bothering to mention her breach of the law. For now it was enough to see her standing there, bruised and burned but alive. The sickening moment when he saw her lower herself into the ruins…he couldn’t articulate why, but he would have demolished every last piece of it with his bare hands to save her. No matter how they disagreed, he knew one thing above all: he could not lose Abby Griffin. And if he chose to leave her transgressions out of the daily log of activities, he was certain Pike wouldn’t suspect a thing.

“I have to go,” she said abruptly, wiping coal dust from her eyes with her equally coal-stained wrists while balancing Raven on her shoulder.

“You can barely stand,” Marcus said. “I’ll call someone to help her.”

She looked at him for a long moment, transferring the unconscious young mechanic from her arms to Sinclair’s.

“How long would it take for them to get here?” she asked.

“A few hours,” Marcus said. In all likelihood it would be longer – Raven had two strikes against her, she was from Twelve and not a government official – and the Capitol wouldn’t prioritize her over any of their citizens who needed aid. He thought Abby must’ve known that, too, because she shook her head as she stepped around him.

“That’s too long,” she said while moving away from him in a lopsided run. Clarke, Wells and Sinclair followed. “I need to help Raven _now_.”

There were words unspoken that hid in her gaze, in the exhaustion that clung to her words like smoke. And as he looked at the girl’s unlined face, the scratches and scrapes that peppered her tanned skin, a wave of guilt crashed into him that he couldn’t ignore. He couldn’t blame himself for the collapse, but if Abby couldn’t help her because she couldn’t get outside the borders of Twelve…his stomach churned.

But the Laws of Panem gave clear instructions, instructions he had to follow. If Pike found he wasn’t keeping order in his district, he’d be reassigned at best. He didn’t want to think about what happened at worst.

“Abby,” he said, running after her. She didn’t even glance in his direction – she had begun giving orders to Clarke and Wells for procedures they’d follow when they arrived at her home – and he repeated her name several times in varying tones before she answered.

“What?” she snapped, and Clarke glared at him, too. The only one in their small group who wasn’t staring at him as if they wished they could vaporize him was Sinclair, whose eyes hadn’t left his assistant since she and Abby emerged from the smoldering ruins.

Hundreds of possible phrases battled to escape his lips. _I’m sorry about the fences. I’m happy you’re all right. Please be careful. I hope you can help her._

And with everything weighing down his tongue, nothing came out of his mouth. She regarded him for a moment that seemed to span years, although it could’ve been no longer than a second or two.

Then she turned away, family and friends in tow, and Marcus returned to clearing the wreckage.

* * *

“I heard about the incident,” Pike said, his tone unreadable. There was no genuine sympathy in it, Marcus reasoned – only necessity. When incidents like this happened, the Head Peacekeeper was required to check in to ensure order was being maintained. The livelihood of the people in District 12 meant nothing to him.

“Everything’s fine,” Marcus said. “I have it under control.”

Pike didn’t answer at first, and Marcus could imagine him raising his eyebrows in skepticism. “This isn’t the time to be a hero, Kane,” he said. “If you need backup, I’ll send Cage and his team.”

“We have the wreckage cleared,” Marcus answered. “Their doctor is tending to the wounded. If you sent them here, I’d be sending them back in ten minutes. There’s nothing for them to do.”

There was silence on the other end for a long moment. He knew it might have been foolish to hope, but Marcus found himself wondering if the conversation was at its end. He was still covered in multiple layers of dirt and grime, and wanted nothing more than to trudge up the stairs into the small shower, turn the rusted knob, and scrub the gritty substance from the surface of his skin.

“Their doctor,” Pike remarked, his tone carrying a note of curiosity. “She's all right?”

Marcus frowned, his grip on the receiver tightening. _Why do you care about Abby?_

“Yes,” Marcus answered simply, images of her small frame encircled by red-hot metal and smoking wood drifting back to him again. There was no way to steer the conversation away from her, but perhaps if he only gave monosyllabic answers…

“Have you been monitoring her?”

“Why would I need to monitor her, sir?”

“To ensure she’s complying with regulations,” Pike said, and Marcus let out a silent breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “She can’t use more than the regulation amounts of blood and medicine, Kane. You should make sure she’s following the law.”

An image of the girl, the mechanic, floated back to him again. He didn’t know much about medicine, but he wasn’t sure regulation amounts of _anything_ would be enough to help her. 

“I’ll check in with Doctor Griffin tomorrow, sir,” Marcus said. “She’s dealt with many challenges today. When I left her, she was completely exhausted.”

_From diving into a burning wreckage._

Just another thing he wouldn’t mention to Pike.

Then there were the things he wasn’t mentioning to himself, the things he tried to block from his memory. His heart skipping several beats when she lowered herself into the ruins. His hands shaking as he joined the stunned clearing crew. His mind racing, convincing him he’d never see her again, screaming that the last memory he’d have of Abby Griffin would be those sickening seconds before she defied him.

He only worried because she was their healer, he reasoned. Clarke couldn’t handle that number of people. That, he told himself, was why he nearly vomited when a half-hour passed and they hadn’t found her. That was why he nearly collapsed with relief when he looked down and her brown eyes looked up at him, exhausted, frightened, but _alive_.

“No,” Pike said, the order clear despite the static crackling through the speaker. “Kane, you need to check on her _now_. You never should have left her. She could be using the district’s whole supply, and you wouldn’t know. Why the hell did you leave?”

“We weren’t done clearing the mine, sir,” Marcus said. This was the angriest Pike had ever been with him, and his fingers tightened around the phone as his palms began to sweat. Charles Pike wasn’t a nice man when in a bad mood, or so he’d heard.

“I don’t care!” Pike shouted. “You can’t leave Abigail Griffin alone at a time like this, Kane.”

Marcus scowled. Later, when he thought about what he said next, he’d blame it on his exhaustion. He’d blame it on the trials the day put him through, he’d blame it on the way his muscles ached with every shaky breath he expelled into the humid air.

“Why is she so important to you, sir?” he asked. “Is this about her, or is it about Jake Griffin?”

A long silence grew on the other end, and Marcus knew he stepped over a line. And hadn’t just stepped over it gingerly, carefully, quietly: he jumped over it and sprinted away, leaving code and decorum in the dust.

It was no shock, then, that Pike’s tone was grim when he finally replied.

“Jake Griffin is none of your concern.”

“I understand,” Marcus said, trying to make amends for his blunder. He didn’t understand, not really – there were so many things that confused him about Jake, about Pike’s sudden focus on Abby – but he couldn’t ask the questions that nearly slipped off the tip of his tongue. Not if he wanted to keep his job.

“If you find she’s used more than regulation amounts, do what needs to be done,” Pike said.

Marcus nearly dropped the phone. He knew what the book said, knew what he’d have to do, but the thought of subjecting her to it made his stomach sink with dread.

“Sir,” he said, trying to formulate a coherent argument with a barely-functioning brain. “These people have been through enough for today. To see their doctor on the whipping post after that…with all due respect, I don’t think that’s the way to prevent a rebellion.”

“Laws are laws,” Pike said, unmoved by his sentiment. “That’s an order, Kane. Call me back in an hour with a report.”

Then the line went silent.

Marcus hung up the phone with trembling hands and a heavy heart. _For once, Abby, I hope you followed the rules.\_

* * *

 

Marcus didn’t need his jacket tonight: the air still held the warmth from the explosion. So he left his home without his uniform, each step propelling him deeper into a pit of despair. It occurred to him that like this, he was no different than the people around him – without his uniform to separate them, he looked much like the citizens he presided over – and he found himself wishing he could trade places with them for just one night.

The walk to her home seemed longer than usual. Normally he would’ve taken comfort in the stars that shone above his head, in the wind that ruffled the leaves on the trees and the chirping of the crickets. But tonight, he couldn’t find joy in any of those small pleasures.

_Please, Abby. Please don’t make me do this._

He knocked on her door and swallowed hard, wondering what his mother would’ve told him to do in a situation like this.

No one answered on the first knock, and he assumed one of two things occurred: either someone caught a glimpse of him and thought better of allowing him into the house (probable) or what they were doing wasn’t legal and they couldn’t let him into the house (also probable). He knocked again, louder, hearing the echo resonate on the other side of the polished wooden door.

This time, the door opened.

Marcus didn’t have a reason for his expectation that Abby would be the one to let him in, but he realized it was unfounded when his eyes fell on the person who eliminated the barrier between him and the home. Clarke stood in the entryway, eyes red-rimmed from a mixture of tears and exhaustion, and it was clear from the expression on her face that she hadn’t known he stood on the other side of the door.

 _She probably expected Jaha._ Was Jaha here? Did he know what the Capitol ordered him to do? Could he, as mayor, stop it?

“What do you want?” Clarke asked tonelessly. Marcus stepped inside without being invited, trying to maintain as much of his Peacekeeper decorum as he could while his insides pulled themselves apart.

“I need to talk to your mom,” he said. He began making his way toward an open area, the place he guessed was where she treated patients, but the blonde-haired girl stepped in front of him.

“She’s busy,” she said quickly. Too quickly. _Dammit, Abby._

Orders from Pike were orders from Snow himself, he couldn’t afford a rebellion, but every particle in Marcus Kane’s body shrieked for him to walk out the door instead of pushing his way past Jake Griffin’s daughter.

“I wasn’t asking permission, Clarke,” he said as he resumed his course, invoking the tone of voice he only used on official Peacekeeper matters. It was cold, soulless, and for a moment he saw himself the way he understood others in the district must’ve seen him: heartless, unemotional, detached.

He loathed it.

Clarke shoved her way past him into another room, and he heard her speaking to Abby in hushed, frantic whispers. Random things registered to him as he followed the path Clarke unintentionally lay for him – pictures of Jake on the wall, the certificate she received upon completing medical training, a grainy image of Clarke and Wells as children – but he couldn’t absorb any of it. Not when his fatigue-riddled mind was consumed with the unpleasant task Charles Pike forced upon him.

She didn’t look up when he entered the room. She didn’t take her eyes off the girl on the cot, the girl with tanned skin and dark hair whose face was pale and whose eyes were closed. A name registered briefly – Raven – and Marcus glanced at her chest and was relieved to find it rising and falling. Abby, it seemed, had done her job.

And now he had to punish her for it.

“Abby,” he said, both trying to get her attention and announcing his presence. Clarke didn’t look at him either, as mother and daughter rotated around the patient. There was nothing to indicate what procedure had been done, but he guessed it must have been extensive – a variety of tools were scattered about the room, resting on countertops and sitting on the floor.

“There’s nothing else we can do,” he heard Abby say when she caught Clarke staring down at the girl, concern written into the slump of her shoulders and the furrow of her brow. “Honey, we’ve done everything we can.”

“Abby,” he tried again, and this attempt yielded better results. Her attention shifted from Clarke to him, and the softness in her gaze hardened instantly.

“I’m busy, Kane,” she said, making no effort to move toward him as she checked Raven’s pulse. “If you want to talk about what happened today, we can talk tomorrow.”

He didn’t have to see her to feel the intensity of Clarke’s glare. With everything that happened, he thought it was best to get right to the point.

“How much blood did you use, Abby?”

“Don’t answer him,” Clarke said, placing a hand on her mother’s arm. Abby shook her head, her unkempt ponytail swinging in the candlelight, and Marcus knew the next words that left her lips would be the ones he least wanted to hear.

“I used whatever it took,” she said, a steely strength reinforcing her words. She gently removed her daughter’s grip on her as she made her way toward him, and his breath caught in his throat. _Laws are laws._

“Are you aware,” he said, “That the Laws of Panem restrict the amount of blood and medicine to be utilized in medical efforts for each citizen?”

It wouldn’t matter if she wasn’t aware of the regulation. The Capitol would punish her anyway, he thought bitterly. Abby’s eyes met his for the first time since he found her in the wreckage, and despite the circumstances, he felt his foolish heart skip again. A byproduct of exhaustion, he reasoned.

“You don’t get to decide who lives and dies, Kane,” she said, still staring at him with a mixture of revulsion and horrified awe. “I don’t care what the Capitol says. That isn’t a choice for them, or any of us, to make.”

And yet the Capitol sent children away to the Games, they restricted food and supplies to rebellious districts, they executed prisoners…the nausea that made its presence known to him when he stepped through her doorway intensified, and for a moment the room tipped sideways.

“Am I to understand you used more than the allowed dose?” Marcus asked. He wasn’t trying to prompt a confession, but some faint glimmer of hope in his chest hadn’t expired. Perhaps she’d change her tale, perhaps she’d say she only used what the Capitol said was proper…

“How else would you understand it?” she snapped. “I’m well aware you only see her as a kid from Twelve. To you, she’s disposable.”

“Abby,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He was so damn _tired_. “What you’ve done doesn’t only affect you and Raven. It sets a standard for everyone in the district. If they see you breaking the law, they’ll assume they can get away with it, too. The threat of rebellion must be taken seriously.”

He didn’t know if he was saying it for her, because it was what Pike would want him to say, or because he needed to hear it. Because if it was in the open air between them, perhaps it had some validity. Perhaps those words would stay in the air until her sentencing the next morning, and he could use them as a shield against what the law told him must happen.

But he was surprised she couldn’t hear the sound of his heart breaking, the cracking and shattering that followed her irrefutable confession. _Why couldn’t you just follow the rules, Abby?_

“Well, if you’re going to make an example of me, go ahead,” she said, defiance sparkling in her chocolate eyes. “But that’s the difference between us, Kane. To me, these people are more than just numbers.”

She stepped away from him suddenly, turning her back as she returned to Raven’s side. Marcus opened his mouth and let the vile words creep past his lips, because he had to, because Pike was using his mouth to broadcast his words and he was dancing on strings pulled in a gilded city thousands of miles away.

“You’ll be escorted to the town square at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said, hoping he could wrench Pike’s words from his throat before his voice faltered. “And you’ll receive ten lashes for your treason against the Capitol.”

No response came from her or Clarke, and he left with apologies on his lips and a lead weight in his heart. 

* * *

Abby didn’t sleep the night before the whipping.

Not because she was afraid of the pain – no matter what Marcus did to her, it wouldn’t compare to the inescapable, soul-consuming despair of losing Jake – but because her mind wouldn’t allow her eyes to close without the knowledge that Raven was going to be all right.

She and Clarke had had to remove shrapnel from the explosion from the base of her spine. They’d given her morphling before the procedure (they still had reserves of that, and Abby was thankful) and she hadn’t yet awoken. Logically, Abby knew there was nothing to worry about where her unconsciousness was concerned. It would take another hour at least for the effects of the drug to wear off, and there was nothing she could do for the girl on the operating table in the meantime.

Clarke had all but collapsed on the couch on the couch in their living room a half hour ago, insisting she was just “going to sit down for a minute.” Wells went home to his father, and Sinclair was fast asleep in the chair next to Raven’s bed. He’d stumbled into consciousness a few times throughout the evening and asked her, frantic, if Raven was going to be all right. Each time, she and Clarke reassured him that he’d have his assistant back and there was nothing to worry about.

Abby wasn’t so sure.

Those five fateful words hadn’t left her since Raven uttered them. _I can’t feel my legs._ They started a war inside her that wouldn’t cease until the girl’s eyes opened, as her emotions battled between relief that Raven had survived and uncertainty about her condition. It was possible, she understood, that the accident would leave her without the ability to walk.

But if her choices were leaving Raven in the mine or performing the operation, she wouldn’t hesitate to save her life. The loss of her legs wasn’t a certainty, Abby reminded herself, and Raven was one of the strongest people she knew. If any of Twelve’s citizens could handle the aftermath of the surgery, it would be Raven Reyes.

Various other patients came and went throughout the night with differing symptoms, and Abby treated them as best she could given the lack of medicine she had. On a night like this her office hours were whenever she was awake: people needed her, and she wouldn’t turn them away because of the clock on her wall. But more often than not, she had to send them away without a solution to their problem – such were the consequences of re-electrified fences.

And without Raven, she and her daughter weren’t going to get outside the barrier.

Quietly, her heart heavy with the events of the day, she made her way toward her daughter. Clarke was sound asleep as well – and she should be, Abby thought, after everything she’d been through – and she reached down to brush a strand of golden hair out of her eyes. For all her tenacity when she was conscious, she was quite peaceful when she slept. _Just like her father._

Clarke’s eyelids fluttered at Abby’s touch, and she withdrew her hand as regret swept over her. _I didn’t mean to wake you up._

“Mom?” she whispered, lips barely parting as she spoke. Abby barely glimpsed her ice-blue eyes: it was clear her daughter wasn’t going to stay awake for long.

“I’m here,” Abby whispered in return. “I’m right here, honey.”

Clarke mumbled something indiscernible and shifted her position, now looking straight at her mother instead of resting on her side.

“…something else we can do,” Clarke said, the beginning of her sentence jumbled. Abby raised her eyebrows.

“Raven’s going to be okay,” she said, leaning down to take Clarke’s hand. Her skin was cold to the touch, and Abby began looking around the room to locate a blanket. “There’s nothing to worry about right now.”

“Wasn’t talking about Raven,” Clarke responded, and Abby returned her gaze to her daughter.

“Clarke…” Abby started, ending her sentence with a sigh. There was nothing, realistically, they could do to evade her sentence. Running off into the woods might’ve been an option, but where would that leave the people who needed her? Where would it leave Raven? Talking to Thelonious might have been an option, but he’d become infuriatingly close to Kane since he implemented the new laws.

They were out of options.

There was nothing else they could do, and Abby accepted it. If the worst that came from diving into a wreckage and using extra blood to save Raven’s life was ten lashes, she’d let herself be tied to the post and accept the marks the whip etched into her back. But it sickened her, it would _always_ sicken her, how little regard Kane had for the lives of the people in the district.

To be fair, it might not have been him. It might have been the laws to which he was enslaved, it might have been the Capitol, it might have been behavior and attitudes he learned throughout the years that were now as much a part of him as the uniform he wore like a second skin.

Shock still overtook her when she remembered seeing his face through the rubble, when she realized he hadn’t abandoned her and Raven to a fiery, airless demise. _You had most of it cleared. Why didn’t you just leave?_

He didn’t know she went after Raven, so any explanation relating to her was invalid. And he certainly wouldn’t have moved the gigantic pile of dry wood and scorching metal for _her_. When he let her walk away from the wreckage to treat the injured, a tiny voice in the back of her head began to whisper something she never thought would enter her head - _maybe he’s changed. Maybe this changed him._

Then he came over to sentence her to a whipping and insist laws be followed, and that voice fell silent. Another one replaced it, angered, cold. 

“I’m going to talk to Wells,” Clarke said, her voice clearing from the fog of sleep that had slurred it. She dropped her mother’s hand and sat up, the couch squeaking beneath her weight. “He can talk to his dad, and  _he_ can talk to Kane.”

“Clarke,” Abby said, walking around the couch to face her daughter directly. There was no resignation in her words, only the acceptance of fact. “Wells and his dad aren’t going to do anything. They can’t.”

“Wells won’t let this happen. And Jaha’s ignored laws before.”

“That was when Cray was Peackeeper,” Abby noted. She hadn’t said it, but she might as well have: _that was before Kane._ “I broke the law, and I accept the consequences.”

When Clarke met her gaze, Abby’s heart shattered. Clarke didn’t cry often – much like her father, it took quite a bit to bring tears to her eyes.

“I’m not going to let this happen,” Clarke said, shaking her head as her eyes glistened with tears. “They can’t do this to you. It’s not fair.”

Abby was reminded of herself as a child, watching Jake in the Games. _The Capitol’s never been fair, honey._

“I’ll be okay,” Abby said, moving forward to hold her daughter in her arms, stroking her hair as her shoulders began to shake. “I promise.”

A noise sounded from the other room, and both women tensed.

“Raven’s awake!” Abby heard Sinclair shout, oblivious to the other patients in the house.

Clarke disentangled herself from her mother’s arms, and they both rushed toward the pair of mechanics. As soon as she entered the room she could tell Raven hadn’t fully emerged from the morphling’s haze – she was struggling to push herself off the cot and her arms were shaking – but she was, undoubtedly, awake. Within minutes, the effects would wear off.

“Raven,” Abby said softly, and the girl winced as she turned her head in Abby’s direction. “How are you feeling?”

“Great,” she said weakly, swaying from side to side as she tried to stay upright. _At least she’s feeling well enough for sarcasm._ “Good as new.”

Sinclair hovered by her side, supporting her as she sat up. He shifted to the opposite side of her bed when Abby approached, but remained just as close.

“You need to lie back down,” Abby said. “Once the morphling wears off completely, it’s imperative that you rest and recover. You can’t exert yourself.”

Raven looked at her blankly, eyes wide and emotionless, and Abby wondered how many of her words were getting through. It would be best, she figured, to do this now.

“Can you flex your feet for me?” she asked. One foot moved from side to side – her right – but her left remained motionless. Abby and Clarke exchanged a nervous glance, and Abby’s stomach sank. _Oh, no._

She touched the bottom of Raven’s foot, sliding her finger along the bottom.

“Can you feel this?” she asked, and Raven tilted her head.

“Feel what?” she asked, glancing from Sinclair to Abby and back again. “Is there something I should be feeling?”

Abby tried again on her right foot, and Raven flinched.

_No, no, no._

Abby pressed on the outside of her thighs, and she jumped. _The upper half of her leg isn’t affected._

“Abby…” Raven said, lower lip trembling. “I couldn’t feel my legs when you found me.”

She forced herself to remain calm. _You saved her life. If you hadn’t operated on her, she would’ve lost both legs._

“Raven,” she said, nearing tears. There was no good way to say it, but it had to be said. “There’s nerve damage to your leg.”

Clarke, who had been hovering at the threshold between Raven’s room and the living room, entered and found a place by the cot. She took her friend’s hand. Abby, momentarily lost to her regret, didn’t hear what she said. _What if I found Raven earlier? What if we hadn’t tried to power down the fence today? What if…?_

But suddenly, the real world snapped her out of her downward spiral. Everyone was crying – Raven was crying, Clarke was crying, Sinclair moved forward to wrap his bandaged arms around them both – and tears began to prick at the corner of her eyes, too.

And so, crying in each other’s arms, they waited for the cold daylight to break through the night’s warmth.

* * *

Marcus didn’t sleep the night before the whipping.

He tossed and turned the night away, the sandpapery sheets on Cray’s old bed ensnaring his legs and gluing them to threads with sweat. The pillows felt like rocks – hard, unyielding – and they offered little aid against his racing thoughts.

He tried taking a few sips of liquor to calm his mind, but it did little to give him reprieve. The burning of the liquid in his throat made him think of the whip against her skin, and he seconds later he was sick in the small, chipped porcelain sink in the half-bathroom next that adjoined to his bedroom.

Slipping to the cool tile and resting his burning forehead against the wall, he acknowledged it was foolish to believe he’d get any rest tonight.

His fingers curled around the bottle again, lost in the hope that perhaps if he drank more, let more of the alcohol seep into his bloodstream, it would blur the dreadful reality that inched closer with each passing second. The clear liquid churned in the glass bottle, tempting him. He lifted it, as if in a toast to the law that had so completely unwound and bested him.

“You win,” he croaked, unsure if those words were directed at Pike, Abby, or the Capitol itself. “You win.”

Then he threw the bottle against the wall with every ounce of rage his exhausted limbs could muster, taking no pleasure in the sound of the glass shattering upon impact. It was an ill-conceived decision, and he cringed as the liquor splashed onto his bare feet and soaked into the tiny cuts that clearing the mine wreckage had placed on his hands. 

But what did it matter? Why did he suddenly feel like he was a pawn in their game, a game he’d been playing since the age of eighteen? _If your mother were here, she’d be ashamed of you,_ a heartless voice in the back of his head admonished him, and he had no argument against it. Vera Kane would never have allowed such a fate to befall Abby.

But Marcus was not his mother. His mother wouldn’t have hid from her feelings under the umbrella of a selfless excuse – _I need to provide for my family_ – she would have faced them head-on, solved the problem, and found another way to be happy. She always excelled at that, he remembered. She was always happy. For some reason, that trait hadn’t been passed to him; more often than not, he felt like there was something missing in his life. A hole, a void, impossible to fill. When he smiled, it was out of necessity.

His smiles were a bandage over a wounded soul, but lately the bandage had been peeling. Abby had Clarke. Raven had Sinclair. Miller had his son, his family. Who did he have? If he hadn’t run from her, perhaps he would’ve had Callie. Their relationship wasn’t perfect, and no matter how they tried to make it work, there would have been problems. But it was _something_. If she hadn’t been part of the rebellion…he sighed.

There was no one here to see him, nothing but the cold light of the stars to console him while he sat on his bathroom floor, resting his head in his hands and waiting for the sledgehammer pounding inside his head to stop.

This would be the end of whatever unstable companionship they could have had. She wasn’t about to forgive him for everything he’d done to her, to Jake – and she shouldn’t, he thought, he deserved every ounce of her hatred – but something in the realization that this punishment would ensure they’d never go back to the way they used to be was enough to have him throwing up in the sink again.

She’d never smile at him again. He’d never hear her laugh. The hug she gave him all those years ago before he stepped onto the train – God, how he wished he could go back and keep himself from making that idiotic decision – still simmered in vivid detail in his memory, the scent of her lilac perfume as fresh as if she’d held him only yesterday.

Had he ever stopped loving her? _Could_ he ever stop loving her? He had certainly thought so. For all those long years, when he ignored a letter or turned off a broadcast, he thought it had been out of reverence for a past they could no longer recreate. Was she so wound into the fabric of his being that to stop loving Abby Griffin would be to unravel himself completely, stitch by stitch?

Then, an even more unpleasant question. Did he leave Callie because of her position in the rebellion, or because of a far more irreparable transgression: she wasn’t, and never could be, Abby Griffin?

Was their relationship doomed from the second she approached him on that balcony, simply because she didn’t have those goddamn chocolate eyes that had the power to make him both melt and freeze inside? Because when he talked to her, tried to make her laugh, he could hear Abby’s laughter in his head? Because he could still, after all those years and miles and things unsaid, see her smile when he closed his eyes and feel the way her lips brushed against his skin?

Running from Abby only brought him right back to where he started: in the dirt and grime of District 12, ten minutes away from her front door. While they weren’t kids anymore, he glimpsed the same traits they’d had as children: he, a rule-follower who placed the written word above all; her, willing to bend the rules to help those in need. She was a better person than he could ever hope to be, and now he’d have to take a whip to her back because of it.

 _I’m sorry, Abby,_ he thought, eyes burning. _I’m so sorry._

Marcus spent the next few hours drifting in and out of a restless slumber with his back on the bathroom floor, trying not to answer the question that swirled through his head with the intensity of an ocean current, the heartless rigidity of Pike’s orders.

_What if you never stopped loving her? What if you never stopped loving her? What if you never stopped loving her?_

The clock next to his bed sounded its shrill alarm, informing him it was eight in the morning – time for him to get up to meet the Peacekeeper troops whom Pike ordered to oversee the district to prevent an uproar over Abby’s punishment. They’d only be there for a few hours afterward, to monitor the situation: Pike had also left little doubt in his head that they’d be needed elsewhere after that time was up. Technically, Marcus wouldn’t be the one giving her the lashes – that was, according to Pike, a job reserved for a lower-level officer – and it was a small comfort that the lashes that would part the smooth skin on her back wouldn’t come directly from his hand.

But he’d be giving the orders. And which was worse, really? Having the hand that held the whip or the mouth that moved it through the air?

He stood up slowly, the room shifting sideways as he did so. Exhaustion and desolation were a disconcerting combination, and he’d be lucky if he made it through the next hours without passing out in an alleyway in the Seam. Rummaging around in his drawers for his official uniform, something he hadn’t worn in months, he felt the sensation of paper brushing against the tips of his fingers. _Her letters._

One last time, he sprinted back to the bathroom and vomited into the sink.

As he pulled on his Capitol-issued leather jacket and pants – probably a dated outfit by their standards, he thought humorlessly, but no one bothered to send him an updated version – he realized he wouldn’t be eating breakfast this morning. In fact, given the state he was in, he might not be eating for the next day or two. What was about to happen…it would haunt him in nightmares for years.

The morning air was bitingly cold against his face, save the areas that were covered by a smattering of stubble. He’d been planning to shave last night, but other matters demanded his attention. Families observed him as he walked past – no one was on their way to work today, not after the accident – and he thought some of them seemed less harsh in their regard of him. After today, he’d be back where he started in the hearts and minds of 12’s citizens.

If not _worse_.

* * *

The troops arrived in several Capitol-issued vehicles, instead of by train. Another change since he’d been Peacekeeper of Twelve. Apparently, Capitol Peacekeepers had personal vehicles now. As the Peacekeeper of the lowest district, Marcus doubted he’d ever see one.

A man stepped out of the first car, removing his helmet to reveal a somewhat youthful face. Marcus assumed he was about ten years younger than him, and he’d never seen him before. Their uniforms, of course, were recent issue: an all-white bodysuit with a bulletproof chest plate and various other state-of-the-art technologies. If a riot broke out, Marcus realized, he’d have no means of protection.

The younger man stepped forward, extending a hand in cordial greeting.

“Cage Wallace,” he said with a nod, and in close proximity Marcus could see the scar that graced the man’s upper lip. _Wallace._

The Wallace family had been Peacekeepers for generations, and Dante Wallace (the man Marcus assumed to be Cage’s father) had once been Head Peacekeeper to President Snow in his younger years. The scar was evidence of a well-known Wallace reputation: they were ruthless and served their people, the Capitol, at any and all costs.

Marcus shook his hand, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat. Everything was happening quickly, and now he was expected to pretend he hadn’t spent the night vomiting on the floor of his bathroom and shattering liquor bottles.

“Marcus Kane,” he answered, keeping his voice level. “Welcome to District 12.”

Cage looked around, a slight scowl flitting over his sharp features.

“I don’t know how you do it, living here. I’d be ashamed of myself.”

Marcus didn’t have an answer for that.

One by one, the rest of the troops emerged. Pike had sent nearly a hundred of them, Marcus estimated, and he couldn’t help wondering if that was overcompensation. Sure, the people of Twelve adored Abby. But what was Pike so concerned about? They’d just suffered a mine accident. The chances of them rising up and forming even a small-scale rebellion in the aftermath were…slim to none, at best.

Eventually the full force exited their vehicles, and they made their way toward the town square. Cage and Marcus led the group, discussing orders as they went.

“Have you been assigned directives?” Marcus asked, hoping he wouldn’t have to take care of it. His heart was already nearly crawling out of his throat at the thought of what came after this formal procession, and he wasn’t certain his mind could handle giving assignments, too.

“Of course,” Cage said. “I’ll be administering punishment. The rest of the troops will gather the district and disperse throughout the square and the town, ensuring no rebellious activity takes place.”

“Pike’s left nothing to chance,” Marcus said, head spinning. Cage Wallace was administering Abby’s punishment? _Why_? Was Pike so concerned about her that he felt the need to place a whip in the hand of a legacy with a well-documented history of ruthlessness?

Cage’s eyes flickered to his wrist, and he announced the time.

“It’s nine-thirty,” he said, dismissing two of his officers to fetch Abby and bring her to the square, and half the squadron to assemble the district’s citizens. With significantly less officers behind them, they made their way to the empty, brown-earthed clearing in the center of town where the whipping post stood: cold, metallic, rusted from the elements.

Marcus thought of Abby, thought of these harsh, heartless men ripping open the back of her shirt and tying her to it, and a wave of shame nearly brought him to his knees.

“She’ll be here soon,” Cage noted. “I have the whip and ties for her hands, but you’re responsible for making the announcement.”

Dread turned his insides to ice as he thought of announcing to the district what Abby was being punished for. If they didn’t despise him before, now their hatred was a _certainty_. Not to mention how Abby would see him after this. She already thought he was a monster, and this would verify her opinion.

As he watched his citizens file into the square, staring blankly at him as if asking for an explanation, he wondered if she was right. He wasn’t just ordering punishment for an unruly citizen: he was bringing pain to his closest childhood friend, the woman he used to watch the stars and make shapes out of clouds with, the woman who gave him and his mother extra blankets during the winter under the excuse that “we have enough for our family”, the woman whose goal for as long as he could remember had been to help people in any way he could.

Memories flashed before his eyes, colliding and overlapping with each other until he didn’t know which of them were real and which he’d dreamt. A storm raged behind his eyes, raining each and every recollection of Abby Griffin he had since the age of eight. Lightning flashes of feelings lit each one, and as the last of his people stumbled into the clearing he held himself together only with the knowledge that it would be over soon. It would end. She’d despise him, but it would end.

First came Clarke, glaring angrily at Marcus from her ocean-blue eyes. It was clear that she blamed him for what was about to happen, and probably would’ve tried to stop it if she could. She stood facing him head-on, searing him with her enraged stare throughout the entire process. Next came Wells and Jaha, who looked at him with sympathy: they were possibly the only ones who could offer some empathy in comprehending how the law bound him. Sinclair was absent, as was Raven, and Marcus wondered if he’d been allowed to stay behind since Raven was in no condition to walk. Abby probably bargained for that, he thought.

Then, moments later, she arrived.

Abby, for her understanding of what came next, was defiant as usual. She walked with her back straight and her chin up, almost as if she felt she was above it all. The Peacekeepers flanking her on either side gripped her arms with what Marcus felt was excessive force, but she kept her expression neutral. Jake’s ring, he noted, still hung around her neck.

_I’m sorry it had to come to this, Abby._

Marcus could do nothing but watch as the men tore the thin material of her brown shirt open at the back, leaving the pale skin of her back exposed for the district to see. They ushered her toward the post, binding her wrists to the metal rungs tightly enough to cut off circulation to her hands. He took a rattling breath and exhaled slowly, Clarke’s rage and Abby’s defiance making his blood run cold.

Abby looked over her shoulder at him, her gaze emotionless despite the range of emotions she likely felt. Betrayal. Hatred. Anger. Those would last long after the whip left her skin: they’d be as permanent as the marks it etched into her.

Cage looked at him expectantly, whip in hand, and Marcus knew he could delay the process no longer.

“Abigail Griffin has confessed to surpassing the limits set for the amount of blood to be used for preserving the life of each citizen,” Marcus announced, his voice echoing around the crowded square. “Under the Laws of Panem, set forth by our Capitol, she has been sentenced to ten lashes.”

A murmur buzzed through the crowd, and Marcus glanced again at Abby. She met his gaze, still unreadable as the wind ruffled her torn shirt. He wondered if she could see the regret in his eyes, if she understood how strongly he wished he could turn around and run from this. To run from her punishment the same way he’d run from her friendship.

One way or another, he was always running from Abby Griffin.

_I never wanted to hurt you._

“On your command,” Cage said, raising the whip. Marcus swallowed hard and gave a nod, not trusting his lips to open with anything other than the “I’m sorry” that rested on his tongue.

Then Cage brought the whip down with terrifying force, and the first lash was done.

Marcus couldn’t watch.

There was no part of him that wished to see this – the skin on her back opening under the impact, the pain that dampened her features – and if he could have, he would have taken those lashes for her. If there was a volunteer system, as there was with the Games, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second to take that punishment for her.

Not because she wasn’t strong enough to handle it: she hadn’t even cried out when the whip struck her back. But because he deserved the punishment more than her, because Abby Griffin deserved nothing but happiness, and he deserved to pay for his sins.

_I’m sorry._

“Again,” Marcus droned, chest aching, and again she was quiet.

When he looked at her, he saw the sixteen-year-old who tried everything to convince him to stay in Twelve instead of undergoing training, he saw the woman who smiled for the cameras and laughed at the interviewers’ jokes even when she couldn’t possibly have understood them, he saw the woman who sent him letters when he stopped responding and forced herself to stop caring when he only responded with silence.

_If this is how you treat the people you love, you’re only causing them pain._

She was right. She was always right. She’d been right when she tried to keep him in Twelve, she’d been right when she saved Raven’s life against the law, she was right when she expressed her hatred for the Capitol, she was right that these people were more than numbers on a data sheet.

And most of all, she was right when she said he only caused pain for the people he loved. After all, was there anyone Marcus Kane loved that was happy? He hadn’t kept in touch with his mother, or Miller, or Jake. When Callie confided in him, he pushed her away. And Abby…his head throbbed.

“Again.”

The third lash was less kind to the woman on the post, and the sound escaping her lips was one of unfettered pain. Marcus bit the inside of his lip, fighting the urge to run to her, untie her shaking wrists from the damn post, and put a stop to the madness around him. His eyes rested on Clarke, if only for a second, and hers brimmed with tears. Abby wasn’t the only one who deserved an apology after this was over, and Abby wasn’t the only one who’d despise him for the rest of his life because of this.

“Again.”

With each “again”, he might as well have been saying “goodbye”.

“Again.”

_Goodbye._

“Again.”

_Goodbye._


	14. Old Memories, New Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who might not know, "morphling" is a medical painkiller used in the Hunger Games universe.

“I need ice, now!”

Through the haze of morphling Abby heard her daughter’s voice, strained with worry. She hadn’t been able to walk home – she’d half-stumbled, half been carried by Clarke, Wells, and Jaha – and the second she was through the doorway she’d been placed on a cot and ordered to stay there. A few times, she thought she heard Raven (“Clarke, what’s happening? Is she okay? Clarke, you’d _better_ answer me.”) but she couldn’t be certain.

She meandered in and out of consciousness for an indefinable period of time, the burning on her back giving way to a curious sensation of floating. Her memory flickered on and off like the district’s electric current, and there were moments where she couldn’t remember what happened at all. Was there a reason she was laying on her chest on one of her own cots? Why was the air around her so cold?

Dreams came and went, slipping away as soon as she opened her eyes, and it wasn’t long before the lines between reality and fantasy blurred.

“She’s sensitive to it,” Abby heard someone observe, but she couldn’t bring a name to match the voice.

“She’s never had morphling before,” another said. That one she knew. _Clarke._ “And I had no choice, Wells.”

Regret in his voice, then. “Clarke, I said I’m sorry.”

“’Sorry’ isn’t going to heal the marks on her back.”

“There was nothing I could do! I-“

“Go home, Wells. Run back to your dad and his Peacekeeper.”

Then unconsciousness claimed her again.

When she woke up for what she thought must have been the second or third time, she felt fire licking the expanse of her back. It took her a few moments to remember what caused it – _was I burned?_ – but eventually, the puzzle pieces fell into place.  _The lashing. Raven. Kane._

She shifted on the cot, trying to get up and reassure Clarke that she was okay, but her daughter noticed before she raised herself even an inch off the mattress.

“Mom. I’m so sorry,” she said, and Abby felt her heart crack in her chest. She hadn’t been this upset since her father’s funeral: her cheeks wet with tears freshly fallen, her eyes wide with fear and remorse.

“I’m all right,” Abby said, cringing as her words came out as little more than fractured whispers. The sound of her voice would do nothing to put her daughter’s mind at ease.

With another sorrowful glance Clarke walked into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water.

“Can you sit up?” she asked, and Abby nodded. Her daughter helped guide her into a seated position, being careful to only touch the tips of her shoulders and her arms. The change in position re-ignited the fire, and Abby winced in spite of her determination to appear stoic.

“Do you need more morphling?” her daughter asked, concern nestled deeply in her tired eyes and broken words. Abby shook her head, gritting her teeth as she reached forward to take the water glass. The motion made the marks on her back scream as the skin on her shoulder blades shifted. Noticing her discomfort, Clarke frowned and moved the water out of her reach.

“No. Let me.”

Abby tilted her head in confusion, unsure what her daughter meant until she brushed a few strands of hair out of her eyes and raised the chipped glass to Abby’s lips. The first attempt was less than successful – the glass collided with her teeth and she jumped, startled – and Clarke pulled away. Abby smiled, wishing she could reach out and touch her daughter’s arm without the waves of pain she knew would crash into her back if she tried.

“Sorry,” Clarke winced, ashamed at the way her hands trembled, but her expression softened when she saw her mother’s lips turn upward.

“It’s okay,” Abby said, and Clarke relaxed enough to try again. More success was had on the second try. The water was cool against her parched lips and dry throat, and a rush of gratitude blurred her vision with tears. Abby Griffin took care of everyone, but it was rare that someone took care of her. On the rare occasions when she got sick, Jake would make every effort to ease her suffering; he’d bring her meals in bed, put cold washcloths on her forehead, and spend time with her without a care for her contagious condition. Clarke, it seemed, had taken up the mantle.

“Thank you, honey,” Abby said, her voice fortified with the strength of her love. Then it was Clarke who smiled, reaching forward to take her mother’s hand.

“How long was I asleep?” Abby asked, stroking her thumb over her daughter’s soft skin.

“Eight or nine hours,” Clarke said. Abby raised her eyebrows.

“That long?” How many people had needed her help during that time? How many had had to go without treatment?

“Mom, you had ten lashes. You need to rest.”

“Seriously,” a new voice declared, and Abby didn’t have to turn to recognize the source. “Go back to sleep.”

“Raven?” Abby said, incredulous. “You should…be resting, too.”

“Yeah, well, I will when you do.”

Clarke explained that Sinclair had made her a makeshift brace for her leg. It wasn’t perfect, and Raven was still getting used to it – as she would be for a while, Abby assumed – but it allowed her some mobility.

“Just when I thought I couldn’t hate Kane more than I already did,” Raven muttered, launching into a rant Abby felt she’d probably been holding back for a while, “he sinks lower. What an absolute-”

The doorbell rang, stopping whatever obscenity the mechanic was about to utter. Sinclair, who had just wandered into the room and inquired about Abby’s condition, offered to get it.

Raven, Abby, and Clarke exchanged confused glances.

“Wells and his dad already visited,” Clarke said. Abby didn’t bother telling her she heard the conversation they’d had: that was a discussion for a time when she could get up off the cot. “Jaha told me they’d come back in the morning.”

“Don’t look at me,” Raven said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “The only people who give a shit about me are already in this house.” 

Sinclair’s voice was faint, a byproduct of the distance between Abby’s room and the door, and she had to strain to hear his words.

“I…” he started, sounding flustered. “I’m not sure she’d want to see you right now, sir. She just woke up, and she’s very tired.”

Clarke and Abby exchanged a look as her stomach clenched. _What is he doing here?_

“It won’t take long,” Marcus Kane’s voice drifted through the hallways and walls, tensing every muscle in Abby Griffin’s exhausted body. “Please, Sinclair. I understand she needs to recover.”

Raven stiffened, the sudden motion knocking her off-balance. Clarke caught her before she stumbled to the floor, and she leaned against the wall, maintaining her composure.

“I’m gonna go get rid of him,” Raven said, clenching her fists as she walked out the door, using the wall to hold herself steady. “If he _seriously_ thinks he can just walk in here after what he did-“

“Raven, don't,” Abby said, noticing how she gritted her teeth when she walked. _She doesn’t need to put herself through any more pain because of me._ “Clarke, can you please tell Sinclair to let him in?”

Clarke’s expression remained neutral, and Abby sensed that for some reason she wasn’t shocked by this turn of events. Raven started to rant again (this time, loud enough for Kane to hear), but Clarke convinced her to stay quiet and go back to her room. She then closed her mother’s door and, Abby hoped, made her way toward Kane.

Without the shields of other people and morphling, the pain of her injuries ran rampant. Abby gritted her teeth against the surging discomfort, gripping the cold metal at the edges of the cot until her knuckles turned white. _Maybe more morphling wouldn’t have been a bad idea._ If her condition stayed this dismal, there was no way she’d sleep tonight.

And what the hell was Marcus doing here? If he’d come to acknowledge she broke another law by entering the explosion site, she’d…well, she couldn’t do anything in her present state. But Raven could, and Raven _would_.

But would he have shown up so late just to rub salt in her wounds? He hadn’t looked like his usual self today when she saw him before the whipping – he was subdued, lacking his usual vigor for law enforcement – not that he’d given anyone else in 12 such a strict punishment. Or perhaps, she thought, she was just imagining things. Maybe she was losing herself in the idea that her old friend still lived in that shell of a Peacekeeper, somewhere, and eventually he’d emerge again _._

She hadn’t been able to hear Clarke’s words to Sinclair through the wooden barrier of the door, and when a few light knocks sounded she had no clue who stood on the other end.

“Come in,” she said, gathering as much strength as she could summon in case it was who she figured it might be.

She was right.

Marcus opened the door slowly, as if he thought the shifting of the air would cause her discomfort. He no longer wore his Capitol uniform, she noticed with surprise: she thought he’d wear it as long as he could. He closed the door slowly behind him, and for the first time she noticed his posture – the slump in his shoulders, the slight tremble of his fingers when he touched the doorknob – was he _nervous_? 

He turned around to face her and brown gazes connected, one remorseful and one defiant.

“So, did it work?” Abby asked, trying to channel her confusion into their trademark passive aggressiveness. “Is the rest of the district still in line?”

Marcus glanced down at the ground for a moment, as if it hurt him to look at her directly.

“Abby, I…” he started, shifting awkwardly in the low light as he paused for a sigh. “This wasn’t something I considered lightly.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself,” she said, overlapping the last part of his sentence with the beginning of her own. Was that what this was? Some backwards explanation for why he ordered a whip to be taken to her back? Did he really think she needed him to come to her house in the middle of the night to explain the law? “I broke the rules, and I accept the consequences.”

He made eye contact with her then, and perhaps it was aftereffects of morphling, but she thought she glimpsed something there she’d never seen before: reverence.

“But you can lash me a hundred times,” she continued, desperate to get her point across. “And I’m still going to do whatever it takes to help these people. My people.”

“I know that,” he responded, barely whispering as he dropped his gaze to the floor yet again.

“Then I guess we’re done here,” she said, her tone fortified with steel.

This was a Kane she’d never seen since the day of his arrival. He was quieter, less self-important, perhaps even _humble_. But did it matter? Was it an act? Would he try to gain her trust to betray her, if the Capitol truly did see her as a threat? His presence was a puzzle she couldn’t solve, and if he left she wouldn’t need to put the pieces together. She was too damn tired to put the pieces together.

Sick of being trapped on the cot and with adrenaline coursing through her veins, she decided to do something incredibly idiotic: she stood up from her bed and made her way toward the glass of water Clarke had poured for her as it rested on the small metal table. Doing so required her to turn her back to him, exposing her scars (she still wore the same torn shirt she’d worn this morning).

He probably didn’t care, she reminded herself. For him, this was all part of the job.

But was showing up at someone’s house after sentencing them to a whipping in the Peacekeeper Code? Abby doubted it. A pounding erupted in her head that had nothing to do with the wounds on her back, and more than anything she wished he’d just _leave_.

Nothing could have prepared her for what he said next.

“I de-electrified the fences a few minutes ago,” he murmured, and it took a few moments for Abby to be sure she heard what she thought she heard. “I determined the risk to the people in this district, given that they don’t receive Capitol medicines, is too high if their doctor can’t access the medicinal herbs that grow in the forest.”

She turned to him, all the pain in her back momentarily forgotten.

“What happened to your laws?” she asked, consciously reminding herself to breathe. If she and Clarke could go outside the fence again, they could help everyone injured in the accident. They might be able to find something to aid Raven in her recovery. Hope expanded in her chest, and despite her injury she felt lighter than she had in weeks. “Won’t you be punished?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But it’ll give the people a chance.”

Abby stared at him, speechless as he opened his mouth to say one last sentence.

“I did hear you, you know.”

A thousand things went through her mind at once but her tongue had turned to lead. _When did you decide to care about the people in 12? What happened to your adherence to the Capitol’s rules? What if they find out about this?_

And with a thousand words in her mouth, only two escaped her lips.

“Thank you.”

He nodded once in her direction, gave her a brief, shaky smile, opened the door, and left her alone with her conflicted thoughts.

 

* * *

“They broadcast Abby’s lashing?” Marcus asked, aghast. He’d been too concerned with her to notice whether or not they were filming the ordeal: not even another explosion could’ve turned his attention from the woman at the post.

What purpose did the Capitol see in directing the nation’s attention to the whipping of a woman in 12? Certainly there were more worthwhile programs to be shown.

“Well, they did here in 11,” David said. “We couldn’t watch it. I know it was mandatory, but we turned the program on and left the room. Nate was shaking, Marcus. I don’t think he wants to be a Peacekeeper anymore.”

_If I had known I’d be taking a whip to Abby’s back, I wouldn’t have been a Peacekeeper, either._

Marcus couldn’t help envying David – he had the freedom to look away from the broadcast, to leave the room and pretend it wasn’t happening. No such option presented itself to him when he stood under the morning sun, letting Pike’s orders fly. There was no broadcast for him to turn off, no room for him to leave. 

David noticed his silence.

“I’m sorry Pike made you do that,” he said. “I know you and her aren’t friends, but it couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” Marcus responded immediately, trying to shove down images that burst forth with the velocity of the Capitol trains. He couldn’t stop seeing her on that post, the marks that would forever divide her back into grid lines. 

“Yeah,” David breathed, and for a bit they let silence speak for them. Marcus couldn’t stop trying to connect the dots the Capitol had thrown before him. Pike’s adamancy about Abby’s punishment. The decision to air the whipping for all of Panem to see. Hell, the insistence that he return to 12 to serve as their Peacekeeper. What did it all mean? Somehow, everything had to be linked.

“She’ll forgive you, you know,” David said, and Marcus jumped out of his head and into their conversation again. It was a nice sentiment, but he wasn’t so sure. De-electrifying the fences had been a necessity, that much was clear from the aftermath of the explosion.

And it took her punishment for him to realize he no longer wanted to play by the Capitol’s rules. Certain of them weren’t difficult to follow – the curfews, the briefings, et cetera – but something snapped inside him when that whip struck Abby’s pale skin, seeing crimson stain the bright sunshine. Marcus Kane wanted to help people, not to _punish_ them. And certainly not for saving a life.

So when he powered down the fences, staring up at the sky and wondering if his mother’s God was listening, he whispered a silent prayer that Pike wouldn’t send a team to investigate whether or not the barrier was still effective. Such an inquiry would lead them to his front door, and the ramifications weren’t likely to be pleasant.

But the look in her eyes when he told her they weren’t electrified was enough to set his soul at ease. It wasn’t an atonement for what he’d done – Marcus didn’t think he’d ever be able to set that right – but it was a start. It was _something_.

“What makes you think that?” Marcus asked, curious.

“She didn’t see your face during the whipping, I’d guess,” David said, and Marcus nodded even though the gesture was useless over telephone lines. “You were barely breathing. We all thought you were fighting tears.”

 _Pike’s not going to like that._ He’d done his best to appear neutral, level-headed, but the sight of her with her hands bound and awaiting her punishment was too much for him to handle.

Last night came back to him in echoes, disjointed memories, and he briefly remembered coming to a realization he wished he could forget.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Marcus said, trying to focus his blurred vision. His thoughts moved at the rate of a baby’s crawl, and he knew he needed sleep more than another of his makeshift therapy sessions with his old friend. So the first time he heard the knock at the door, he convinced himself it was a side effect of his fatigue.

“On the bright side, I’m sure your district’s going to be obedient now,” David said, always attempting to put a positive spin on Marcus’ dire circumstances. Yet another thing that hadn’t changed from their days in training. “You won’t have to worry about a rebellion.”

Marcus rubbed his eyes and yawned, both yearning for and dispelling the idea of sleep. Images from Abby’s whipping would haunt him when he closed his eyes, but he was heartbeats away from collapsing on his kitchen floor.

Another insistent tapping on his door, louder, difficult to ignore.

“David, I think there’s someone here,” he said. “Can I call you back tomorrow?”

Marcus could visualize his friend’s scowl from his tense, strained tone.

“Why the hell is someone visiting you this late?”

“It might be an emergency,” Marcus said, glancing at the door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Talk to you then,” his friend said, and hung up without a goodbye.

He set the phone back on the receiver and made his way toward the entrance to his home, mind spinning. How many catastrophes could his district undergo in the timespan of a week? If it was a medical crisis, he wasn’t qualified to handle it. In his present condition, he wasn’t certain exactly _what_ he was qualified to handle.

As it turned out, he wouldn’t have been able to handle what waited for him on the other side of the door even with a good night’s rest.

“Clarke?” he asked, eyes widening. “What are you doing here?”

She looked up at him with an expression of curiosity and defiance, placing a hand on her right hip.

“I need to talk to you about my mom,” she said, fixing him with her fiery blue stare, and Marcus felt his heart skip multiple beats.

At that point, he knew he could have put a stop to what was about to happen. He could have told Clarke Griffin to go home. He could have told her it was late, he could have told her he was tired, he could have told her to mind her own business, he could have told her it was damn near illegal to question a Peacekeeper about anything, let alone exploring the shadows of his past.

Instead, he told her to come in. 

Marcus guided her toward the kitchen table and asked if she wanted anything to eat or drink – he was given deliveries from the Capitol several times each week, one of the few perks to his profession – but she politely declined, choosing to sit in the seat across from the window. He noticed she looked out at the stars as she spoke.

“I saw the way you looked at her today,” Clarke said, and Marcus nearly dropped the glass of water he’d been pouring himself to provide a distraction from her presence.

“What do you mean?” he stuttered. 

“I was angry at you when we first walked in,” she said, but Marcus didn’t need her words to call forth the image of Clarke Griffin glaring him down across the square. In fact, it was that assumed hatred that made him shocked she’d seek him out and sit down at his kitchen table as if they were old friends.

“But when the other guy started to –“ she paused on the word, and a surge of guilt coursed through him as her breath caught. He hadn’t just affected Abby with the events of the day: he’d affected everyone who loved her.

“Clarke, if you don’t want to talk about it-“ he started, but ever her mother’s daughter, she talked over him.

“I could tell you didn’t want to do it,” she said. “I wanted to hate you, but you looked like you were struggling with what was happening as much as I was. You wanted to stop it.”

He sat down across from her, wincing as his joints cracked and groaned. It hadn’t just been a long day for his mind – it had been a long day for his body, too. For a few moments he stared into his water glass, watched as the ripples smoothened and the surface of the liquid stilled. If only the rest of his life was so peaceful.

“No, I didn’t want to lash your mom,” Marcus said, his exasperation meeting her curiosity. His openness had a limit, of course – he couldn’t tell her what Pike talked to him about, or reveal how everything somehow seemed to revolve around her father. But apparently his dread at Abby’s lashing hadn’t been a secret, or her daughter wouldn’t have been sitting in front of him.

“Why?” Clarke asked, leaning forward slightly. Her blonde hair shone white-gold in the low lamplight, her eye color changing to a dark navy. “What makes her different than anyone else?”

“She’s not,” Marcus insisted, taking a sip of water in an attempt to calm his racing pulse. “Punishment isn’t a part of this job that I enjoy, Clarke. I don't want to lash anyone.”

“I know about the poem,” she said, and the world stopped spinning.

“Excuse me?” he choked on water that hadn’t yet washed down his throat, coughing as it bubbled back into his mouth. _Abby still knows it? After all these years?_

“The poem. You know, the ‘may we meet again’ poem. It was meant for you,” she said, and the tiny smile that stretched across her pink lips told him the upper hand in their conversation was hers.

“I thought she’d forgotten it a long time ago,” he said, more to himself than to his guest.

Clarke shook her head. “She didn’t, Kane. My dad liked it,” she said. “Even though he knew it was between you and her. They taught it to me when I was little. My point is, your name is on the piece of paper. Can you tell me why?”

Marcus sighed and swallowed hard, leaning forward with his elbows against the table. They mirrored each other exactly, one giving information and one withholding it.

“It’s late,” he said after a pause, trying to let his brain catch up with his heartbeat. “If you come back tomorrow-“

“Please,” Clarke said, her eyes widening a fraction. “You’re important to her,” she continued, and Marcus couldn’t have imagined the tremor in her normally self-assured tone. “And you were important to my dad. But they didn’t have pictures of you, they didn’t talk about you, and I don’t know why. My mom hasn’t been the same since you became our Peacekeeper and I don’t have an answer for that. I just…if there’s anything you can tell me, it would really help.”

Suddenly she wasn’t Abby’s daughter, or Jake’s daughter: she was a girl, seventeen years old, who had come to him in the middle of the night for answers because he’d disrupted whatever delicate balance existed in her fractured family, in her impoverished district. Those four simple words bounced around in his head long after they left Clarke’s lips: _you’re important to her. You’re important to her._ And she kept the poem she addressed to him, just as he’d kept her letters, when they both likely assumed the other’s material possessions of each other had been burned long ago.

_Why?_

He was a question that Clarke Griffin needed to be answered, but he wondered if he had too many to answer hers.

He took another deep, chest-rattling breath, and tried to find words for fourteen years of friendship and twenty-four of silence.

“We were friends,” Marcus said. “A long time ago, your mom and dad and I were very close.”

Clarke raised her eyebrows.

“You grew up here?” she asked, incredulous, and Marcus nodded.

“I grew up in the Seam,” he said, the distinction slipping out as a default setting, an instinctive reaction. He wasn’t just from 12, he was from the _Seam_. “You might have met my mother when you were little.”

His companion bit her lower lip, her vision losing focus as she tried to call back memories of a time long past.

“I don’t remember,” she said. “Your mom and my parents were friends, too, I’m guessing?”

“Yes,” Marcus said, suddenly overwhelmed with memories of his childhood. Of afternoons spent in the sun with his two closest friends, of watering his mother’s little tree, of books read in the shade of pine trees. The past was so far away and he and Abby would never be children again, and yet…when he looked at Clarke…

“How did you and my dad know my mom?” Clarke asked. “She’s younger than you.”

“We met her in school,” Marcus answered. “She was two years younger, but she was smarter than the two of us put together. She skipped a few grades and ended up in our classes.”

Clarke grinned, her impossibly white teeth glimmering like snow against the darkness and moonlight.

 

“I knew it,” Clarke said, apparently thrilled at having concluded their origin story. The smile that flitted across her pink lips held a twinge of sadness, and a pang of guilt resounded through Marcus’ chest. No matter how he felt about Abby, he shouldn’t have ignored her. They wouldn’t have been friends, most likely – Marcus hadn’t excelled at maintaining friendships during the best of times – but at least there wouldn’t have been bad blood.

They talked for longer than either of them meant to, as Clarke kept asking questions and Marcus kept answering them. Eventually his glances at the clock grew less frequent and Clarke’s inquiries grew more personal, stepping closer and closer into emotional territories within him that he had yet to explore. She began weaving her way into the most overgrown and wild parts of his heart, places he allowed to grow unkempt after he abandoned them.

They were the places where his fondest memories of Jake grew, his recollections of their happiest times together. He recounted the time when his daring friend convinced him to sneak outside the fence after dark to catch fireflies, and another when they ran after a deer they found in the woods and became hopelessly lost after following it for miles.

“How did you get back?” Clarke asked through peals of laughter, wiping a solitary tear from the corner of her right eye.

“The stars,” Marcus said, still proud of his accomplishment even though the passage of time rendered it all but meaningless. “I remembered something in a book I read about the North Star, and we figured it out from there.”

Clarke nodded, approving, impressed.

Stories about he and Abby were also shared. When they were teenagers and he volunteered to help her practice diagnosing and treating someone with a fever, he hadn’t gone into the appointment with symptoms. But the ice she placed on him ended up giving him a cold (he insisted he’d already been sick), and she then had to take care of him in reality.

He neglected to mention how his heart leapt when she brushed strands of hair from his face, the impossible warmth of her hands under his shirt when she used her tarnished stethoscope to listen to his heartbeat. She’d been certain at that point that he was catching something based on his rapid pulse. He’d been showing symptoms of something, but it hadn’t been a diagnosable illness. If it had been, he thought bitterly, he would have taken a pill and gotten rid of it long ago.

“Why did you stop talking to them?” Clarke asked suddenly, continuing to make her path through the emotional jungle.

For the first time in over two hours, Marcus looked at the clock. It wasn’t really out of necessity – he could’ve talked about his childhood for much longer – but it was because there were two answers to that question, and he didn’t particularly want to send Jake’s daughter away with either one.

Answer one: they drifted apart. He went to training, Abby left for medical school, and he became too busy for visits to 12. Answer one was the explanation he’d allowed himself to believe for years, the comforting arms he allowed himself to fall back on when another letter of hers arrived and he opened it only to shove it in a drawer or beneath a pile of papers. Answer one was safe, simple, and truthful.

Answer two: a woman with brown hair and brown eyes, a woman who invaded his dreams even when he’d been stationed thousands of miles away. The only woman who had the infuriating power to make him turn off a Capitol broadcast because seeing her with his best friend was too damn much for him to handle, but he convinced himself he was getting by, he was forgetting about her, he was taking it one day at a time…until he wasn’t.

He’d tied answer two to a whipping post, he’d ignored her for twenty years, but he still knew every word of her poem and hated himself for it.

Answer two kept him up at night.

Clarke would see through the first response as thought it was made of glass, but if Marcus gave her the second he might shatter.

“We drifted apart,” he breathed, words wispy as the thin clouds that swirled in the starry sky.

“I don’t think so,” Clarke said, raising her chin a fraction as ice blue eyes met chocolate brown. “I think that’s what you want me to think.”

Marcus sighed, the effects of recounting his adventures with Jake and Abby wearing off in an instant.

“Then what do you think?” Marcus asked, ready to agree to whatever came out of her mouth if it got them off the subject. “What’s your theory?”

“My mom,” she said, still looking him down the bridge of her nose. And suddenly he felt like the child in the room, sitting across from a parent who had the ability to stare straight into his thoughts and read them like a book.

Could she really have figured it out? How? How could she have put the pieces together so quickly when he had yet to finish the puzzle?

“Clarke-“ Marcus started, yielding to her interruption.

“You’re different when you talk about her,” Clarke noted, dropping her chin to stare at him directly. “You’re quiet. You smile more.”

“Your mom and I were great friends,” Marcus said, trying to pour water on the fire her words started. “I hadn’t talked to anyone about her in years.”

“You talk about her the same way my mom talks about my dad,” she said. “Like you loved her, and you lost her.”

_You loved her, and you lost her._

If he hadn’t been seized by the cold hands of terror, he might have laughed at the ludicrousness of it all. A 17-year-old girl stumbling upon the answer it had taken him twenty years and a lashing to figure out.

Had he loved her? Yes.

Had he lost her? Yes.

Except her inference wasn’t the right answer, because Abby was never _his_ to lose. Not the way Jake had been hers, not the way she had been his. For every fond memory he uncovered of Abigail Griffin, there was a lashing or argument to mute the happiness with an uncomfortable ache.

“It’s late,” Marcus said, standing up abruptly. “You need to go home. The curfew says you shouldn’t be outside right now.”

“You’re enforcing curfew _now_?” Clarke asked, jaw dropping. “After I’ve been here for three hours?”

“I won’t report it,” Marcus said, suddenly desperate for his familiar solitude. The past three hours had been a walk down memory lane that turned into a sprint for the finish line, and he wanted to reach the end more than anything in Panem. “But I’m tired, Clarke. If you want to talk, we can talk tomorrow.”

With an exasperated sigh, Abby’s daughter rose from her seat and pushed in the chair. The scuffing of wood on cracked tile echoed throughout the house, and Marcus wondered if she made the noise to be as difficult as possible. But to her credit, she didn’t fight him on his decision as she made her way toward the front door.

She left without waiting for a response, closing the door with a slam. Marcus’ gaze followed her as she walked down the path to his front porch, her blonde hair shining in the moonlight, her words reverberating in his head as solidly as if she still sat in the chair in his kitchen.

_You loved her, and you lost her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always welcome! <3 Hope you guys enjoyed.


	15. Reaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tesserae - putting one's name in the reaping an extra time for meager portions of food. (Another term that might be confusing if you've never read THG).

 

To Abby, swallowing through a dry mouth and shoving her hands in her pockets to stop them from shaking, the seconds felt like hours.

The sun was both too hot and not warm enough, as a shiver ran down her spine and sweat beaded at the base of her neck. The buzzing of the crickets was too loud. The humidity plastered her thin jacket to her body like a second skin, and she briefly regretted not taking it off before she left the house. Her mind hadn’t been on her clothes, that much was certain. A swell of panic rose inside her, the same thought crashing into her consciousness over and over and over again: _where’s Clarke? Where’s Clarke? Where’s Clarke?_

Going through District 12’s reaping without Jake’s hand in hers was a terrifying experience. Not that his gesture of comfort eased her anxiety in the slightest – nothing could, not until her daughter was out of the pack of potential tributes and back home, safe – but it had at least reminded her that she wasn’t going through hell alone. That someone else was just as terrified as her, that another person felt a fear identical to hers seeping into their soul.

She was aware of Raven’s presence next to her, but at nineteen years old, she was probably more relieved her name wasn’t in the bowl than she was nervous for anyone in the crowd. When Effie blurted her customary “ladies first!” she leaned over to Abby and startled her from her nervous daze.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Raven whispered, reaching up to give her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You guys haven’t had to take tesserae.”

Abby looked down at her for a fraction of a second while the escort’s hand sifted through the sealed slips of paper. Her tongue was too heavy to talk, and her lips were sealed shut. For years Jake tried to tell her the same thing, and every year she felt like collapsing when Effie’s manicured talons emerged from that glass bowl with a slip of paper in their clutches.

Effie rummaged around for longer than Abby anticipated, and her gaze was unintentionally drawn to the men sitting on the stage. Jaha appeared no different than he did on a daily basis: with his expression carved from stone and his hands folded neatly in his lap, he was the epitome of quiet composure. On his left, Marcus Kane’s posture and expression painted a completely different picture. There was nothing relaxed about the rigidity of his spine, the square set of his shoulders. Where Jaha was resigned she could see Marcus was anxious, filled to the brim with dread. Her eyes were drawn to the lapel of his jacket, where something shone in the sunlight and made her squint as the light reflected into her eyes.

Certainly he wasn’t wearing her pin, was he? There was no logical reason for him to keep it after all the years and arguments they’d had. Her mind, she concluded, was playing tricks on her. They hadn’t spoken since the night after her lashing – there wasn’t much to say, she’d already thanked him for de-electrifying the fences – but the silence was less tense this time. Certain laws she’d always see as unnecessary, but at least he’d come to his senses.

His eyes found hers, her breath caught in her throat, and she knew they were feeling similar emotions in spite of their laundry list of differences.

His trepidation probably had nothing to do with Clarke, she reminded herself: just because _they’d_ talked a few times since her lashing didn’t mean he _cared_ about her. Marcus had memories of Jake that Clarke couldn’t get from her mom, and she understood her daughter’s curiosity. She wasn’t exactly thrilled that Clarke had decided to talk to Marcus Kane, but there was no doubt in her mind that the visits were related to her father.

And truthfully, if she and Marcus were closer, she might have accompanied her daughter. Perhaps they could have sat around a table in the firelight and shared stories from the days of their youth, days when the world seemed kind and possibilities seemed endless as the forest that grew around them. But while the tension had evaporated and her scars healed, it hadn’t left anything resembling friendship in its wake: just quiet and distance.

Abby was perfectly fine with that.

Effie struck a ridiculous pose in her pink pantsuit, her wig shifting slightly in the merciless sun. Some disjointed part of her concocted a laugh that never escaped her lips, forced down by a tidal wave of her dread and fear. _Her name’s only put in once._

The escort cleared her throat and parted her rose-colored lips, Abby swallowed hard, and Marcus closed his eyes.

“Clarke Griffin.”

And just like that, Abby’s whole world crumbled.

_No._

A gasp rang out from the crowd that Abby didn’t hear. Raven’s eyes filled with tears. The sun burned hotter than ever. There was nothing but numbness, a dreadful ringing in her ears, and a single thought, deafening and insistent.

_I can’t lose you, too._

Zombie-like, she began shoving her way through the crowd. The thought that interrupting the reaping ceremony was against the law bubbled to the forefront of her consciousness, and she pushed it away instantly. Did it matter what was against the law anymore? Hadn’t she already been punished for her transgressions? She’d take a million lashes if it meant she could hold her daughter close again.

She shoved her way through aisles of shocked parents, angered by their relief and drowning in their pity. They weren’t moving fast enough, or maybe she wasn’t pushing through with enough vigor, and if she didn’t find her way into the aisle soon…

It was too late.

Abby could do nothing but watch in openmouthed horror as Clarke stepped onto the stage, the braid Abby had woven into her hair falling into disarray at the edges. Her fingers buzzed with the ghost of sensations lost to the past, of running a hairbrush through her daughter’s hair and separating it into three sections. Clarke fought her on the tradition, insisted it was silly that Abby continued to braid her hair on reaping day when she was seventeen years old. But Abby hadn’t told her that she’d been entertaining a notion she now knew was foolish, absurd: she’d been braiding Clarke’s hair on reaping day since she was twelve, and thought perhaps the action had been a sort of good luck charm. Abby wasn’t a superstitious woman, but if it kept Clarke out of the games…

It hadn’t worked, she thought as her eyes burned and her stomach dropped to the ground. She should have known it wouldn’t work. For God’s sake, she was a _doctor_. Superstition wasn’t scientific fact, and now…

“ _Clarke_ ,” Effie said, her cheeriness stimulating Abby’s gag reflex. “Am I correct in assuming you’re Jake Griffin’s daughter?”

Her voice was hollow. She was afraid, and Abby wanted nothing more than to climb onto the Capitol’s airbrushed metal stage and haul her daughter away from Effie Trinket’s perfectly polished claws.

“Yes.”

“Wow,” Effie mused as the microphone crackled. “The daughter of Twelve's only victor, heading into her own Games. How exciting!”

As Abby clenched her jaw to keep from sobbing, her blurred vision picked up the parents and children around her raising their right arms. They held up three fingers in a silent salute, a gesture Abby had only seen before at funerals, a gesture that somewhere, dimly, neurons fired and she remembered meant thanks, admiration, and goodbye to a loved one.

She raised three fingers and let a few tears fall.

Clarke found her in the crowd, holding her gaze as her fellow citizens bestowed her with Twelve’s silent honor. Abby could tell she was doing her best to be strong – she was biting her lip to keep it from trembling – but her eyes widened as she understood what was transpiring before her.

Undoubtedly confused by the ordeal, Abby noticed Effie’s sudden drive to keep the ceremony moving.

“Now for the boys,” she said, sticking her hand into the other bowl, and everything still sounded dull and far away. Abby couldn’t take her eyes off of Clarke, burning every detail of her into her memory in case…in case…

She couldn’t even think it.

“Wells Jaha!” Effie announced, and Abby nearly collapsed.

_She can’t go in there with him. Don’t make her do this._

Clarke could never enter the arena with her best friend, knowing there could only be one victor…

Abby hadn’t meant to take her eyes off of Clarke, but she moved to the side so Wells could join her on stage and Abby’s delayed reaction left her staring at Thelonious instead of her daughter. Gone was the façade of relaxation, replaced by a barely-contained panic. It was clear that as mayor, he hadn’t thought Wells had a chance of being selected.

Her heart had been broken from the moment Effie read Clarke’s name, but those pieces had shattered completely when she selected the mayor’s son. Memories of her daughter and Wells playing outside together when they were young, learning to read together under Thelonious’ careful instruction, exploring the district together....it was impossibly cruel to force this on them.

“Shake hands,” Effie ordered, and Clarke’s palm was nearly swallowed whole by Wells’ trembling grip. They connected for a fraction of a second – likely all they could handle – before dropping their arms to their sides like the other person’s touch had burned them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your tributes from District 12!” Effie exclaimed.

Abby walked away quickly, ducked underneath the fence, and vomited on the dusty, arid ground.

* * *

 _This can’t be happening,_ Marcus thought as he sat in the waiting room, checking the clock as precious seconds he could have been spending with Clarke Griffin slipped away. _This can’t be happening._

Logically, he knew there was nothing that he, the lowly peacekeeper of District 12, could do. Even Pike, perched at the top of the Peacekeeper ladder, couldn’t have affected the Games or reapings. That power lay in the hands of President Snow, the one man who’d never use it.

A half hour had passed between the reaping and the time given for goodbyes, in which he’d offered condolences to a stunned Thelonious Jaha, walked a few blocks to the Town Hall, and planted himself in a seat outside Clarke’s room. He’d thought about looking for Abby – after the ceremony concluded, he lost her in the sea of mostly-relieved civilians eager to return to their normal lives – but decided to prioritize her daughter. God willing, he had at least few more years of awkward silences to exchange with Doctor Griffin. With her daughter, he might only have five minutes.

The grandfather clock in the corner of the dust-ridden room ticked away, Marcus checked his watch, and his pulse climbed. Was someone already in the room with her? Was that why it was taking so damn long? He’d thought they wouldn’t be able to set the room up for visitors in such a short time (as a Peacekeeper, he knew the room was bugged – Pike was paranoid because Snow was paranoid, and mentions of rebellion often bubbled to the surface in such emotional scenarios) but grudgingly, he realized he might have been wrong.

He also understood the oddity of his situation as a Capitol peacekeeper stared at him from behind his tinted visor. Marcus Kane, Head Peacekeeper of District 12, wasn’t supposed to visit with tributes before the entered the arena. This rule had been broken a few times, as most rules had: Marcus remembered an incident when he was younger, and the 18-year-old his young supervisor had been “monitoring” was selected. Visiting her was a breach of Capitol protocol, but given the circumstances, no one mentioned a thing.

Marcus hoped he could trust the man behind the visor.

The door opened suddenly, stirring a dust bunny from its place on the scratched wooden floor, and a pale, exhausted-looking Abby strode out into the waiting room. If he felt anguish over what happened today, he couldn’t imagine what she must have been feeling. To love someone so much and lose them so suddenly…he shivered. Just another reason to not have kids, he thought with no small amount of sadness. The Capitol had turned even that basic human right into something dangerous.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second as she was led away, and Marcus’ heart dropped at the blankness he glimpsed there. He hadn’t expected her to be okay – far from it, in fact – but she was usually either fiery with anger or noticeably happy. An Abby Griffin devoid of emotion was an Abby Griffin he’d never known.

She was gone in an instant, led away by another Peacekeeper’s forceful hands, and Marcus was called into the room.

“Next,” the man droned, and Marcus wondered if this was all a formality to the man in the Capitol’s state-of-the-art white bodysuit. People’s lives were being destroyed, decimated, but what did it matter to him? What did it matter when at the end of the day, the Capitol paid your bills and let you live like a king?

He hated the men standing outside Clarke’s room. He hated the Capitol. He hated Snow. And when the door closed behind him with a soft click and his gaze landed on Jake Griffin’s daughter, standing by a windowsill and tracing patterns into the thin layers of gray dust, he thought he might hate himself, too.

“Clarke?” he said, swallowing a surge of emotion. His voice was raspier than he would’ve wished it to be: she’d dealt with enough emotion for one day, and the last thing he needed to do was get teary-eyed with a girl he’d known for less than three months, who had already dealt with enough emotion in the past hour to last her entire lifetime.

They hadn’t exactly bonded over his memories of her father, either. Clarke was willing to open her mind to him, but not her heart – not after what he’d done to her family – and Marcus understood her reluctance. Those few visits had been at Clarke’s request, not his, and were extremely uncomfortable for them both at times. But Marcus offered a perspective on her father that Abby couldn’t give, and Marcus was happy to help her in any way he could. Somehow, he almost felt like entertaining Clarke’s questions could help him atone for the sins he’d committed against her parents. She hadn’t taken it upon herself to confirm he had feelings for Abby, thankfully. As far as Marcus knew, she’d forgotten about her assumption after leaving his house the first time and never mentioned it again. Whether or not the notion was still running through her head...he hoped he'd never have to find out.

“I thought I’d be able to see her,” Clarke said without turning around, her voice as empty as her mother’s expression. “I thought they were going to take her out the front door, but they didn’t.”

“Clarke, I’m so-“ he started, but she turned around so abruptly that the rest of his sentence vanished inside his mouth. This day was so similar to when he’d been in this same room 26 years ago, saying goodbye to her father. The sandy hair, the ocean-blue eyes, the way they both looked for Abby after she was escorted away. The Peacekeepers hadn’t taken Abby out the front entrance then, and they wouldn’t now.

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Kane,” she said, moving to sit on the couch. “It happened. It’s over. Now, we move on.”

Awkwardly, he walked over to one of the rickety wicker chairs across from her seat and sat down. The chair creaked and groaned under his weight, but thankfully, it held.

“You’re a lot like him,” Marcus said. “Your father. He didn’t cry when he was reaped, either. Your mom and I did, but Jake – he was so strong.”

She nodded, wiping her eyes before the traitorous drops could fall.

“When I went to see him before they took him to the Capitol, he didn’t tell me he was afraid,” Marcus continued, talking over a lump in his throat. “I’m sure he was. But instead of wallowing in it, he made me promise him something.”

“What?” Clarke asked, barely whispering.

“He made me promise to take care of your mom,” he said, trying to ignore the pesky burning at the corners of his eyes. “Absurd, and we both knew it. Your mom has always been able to take care of herself.”

She laughed, a short, dim chuckle, but a real one.

“But Jake needed to know that if she needed someone, she’d have someone here for her. Someone who cared for her as deeply as he did, someone who’d be a constant no matter what she saw on screen. Those were the last words he thought he’d ever say to me, Clarke. That’s how much he loved her.”

Clarke was crying openly now, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks and dotting her blue dress with navy as the fabric absorbed the moisture.

“So, you asked me about my favorite memory of your dad? That’s my favorite memory of him. Without a doubt.”

Marcus looked at his watch as he withdrew himself from the memory. They had less than two minutes.

“Thank you,” Clarke said with a shaky smile.

He couldn’t stop to devote any thought to what he was about to do. So instead of thinking, of stopping long enough for his brain to halt his fingers in their tracks, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the tarnished silver pin Abby had given him years and memories ago: the one he'd worn to the reaping today. Hands trembling, he held it out to her.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Your mom gave this to me before I left for training,” he explained. “It was supposed to protect me. It went with the poem.”

A flicker behind her eyes, then. Clarke reached out and took the pin from Marcus’ hand, turning it over and staring at it for a long moment.

“It’s beautiful.”

“I thought so,” Marcus said, fondly remembering all the struggles Abby’s pin had seen him through. His heart ached when the warm metal was out of his reach, but Clarke needed it now more than he ever would.

He’d go on without the little circular disk, without the comfort of the memories it provided. After all, he’d always have those memories of Abby: he certainly didn’t need the pin to remember the day she’d given it to him.

Clarke looked at him for what seemed like an eternity, something unreadable simmering in her aqua gaze.

“I know how you feel about her, Kane,” she said evenly, as if she’d given her words a great amount of thought.

“Of course I care about her,” Marcus responded, aware of the less-than-savory direction in which the conversation was headed. “We were friends, all of us. I cared about your dad, too.”

“She means more to you than that,” Clarke observed. They had less than a minute left.

“I don’t underst-“ Marcus started, but she kept going.

“If anything happens, I need you to be there for her,” Clarke said, words tumbling out of her mouth like an avalanche. “You understand her better than anyone else. So no matter what you see, no matter what happens, I need you to stay with her. She’ll need you, Kane. And you need her.”

He was nodding before he registered his chin bobbing up and down, agreeing before he heard his words escape into the open air between them.

“Of course,” he said, despising the way his voice shook. “I’ll will.”

Then the Peacekeepers came to escort him away, and a short time later Clarke Griffin was gone. 

* * *

“What do you want?” Raven asked, narrowing her eyes at him. She leaned from one side of Abby’s doorway to the other, blocking the entrance completely. “If this is about her trying to get to Clarke during the reaping, you can shove your laws up your-“

“It’s not about that,” Marcus said in a rush, praying silently that she wouldn’t slam the door in his face and refuse to let him see Abby. Not that he deserved to see her after all that transpired between them in the past month, but her daughter’s words were insistent in his head. _You understand her. Be there for her, Kane._

He hadn’t been there for Abby for so many years. He hadn’t been there when she sent him letters during training, he hadn’t been there when she married Jake, he hadn’t been there when Clarke was born. There was a tear in her life where Marcus Kane was concerned, and he needed to take this chance to at least attempt to mend it. To make things right between them.

It was a pity the catalyst for the reaction had been her daughter’s reaping.

“Raven, are you going to let me in?” Marcus asked, an exasperated sigh ending his question. She raised her dark eyebrows, remaining in the entryway.

“Depends. Do you promise this won’t end with her on the post? Because I’m not gonna let that happen to her again.”

“It’s not going to end with her on the post,” he reassured her _._

“Raven, let him in,” a familiar voice sounded from inside the home, and Marcus felt his heart skip a beat. How, even in the midst of all his sadness for Clarke and anger at the Capitol, did she have this effect on him?

Without saying another word, Raven moved out of the doorway to allow him into the Griffin’s home. The place was haunted by his memory of the last time he’d been here – the torment he’d felt at seeing the marks on her back, the overwhelming need to take it all away, to heal her, to help her. She hadn’t wanted him then, and she might not want him now. But for Clarke’s sake, he had to try.

Raven led him through a few hallways lined with pictures of their family – Clarke, Jake and Abby laughing, Clarke as a child, Clarke and Raven as young teenagers – until they reached a room next to the kitchen. Abby’s home looked different in the daylight, he thought. It was welcoming, inviting, with none of the impersonal air that doctors’ offices in the Capitol had. But without Clarke it felt empty, its energy muted by her absence.

When they found Abby, she was in the midst of pulling on a pair of worn leather boots. Her familiar brown satchel lay on the blue rug to her right, and her hair was pulled up into a ponytail rather than her usual braid. She paused for a moment, looked up at him, and went back to yanking on her shoes.

“I’m going for a walk,” she said, her voice carrying the same toneless quality he’d observed in her eyes before Clarke’s visit. She lost her balance for a moment, tipping toward the wall, but caught herself before Marcus could take a step forward.

“Well, Kane’s here to see you,” Raven said softly. “I know you said to let him in, but if you want me to kick him out just say the word.”

With one last tug, she pulled on her right boot and straightened her spine, staring him straight in the eyes as she tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear. He was relieved to find some of her trademark fire in her gaze, but disheartened by how he glimpsed it flicker. Today had reduced the Abby he knew to ashes, to embers, and he wasn’t sure if he was the right one to restart the flame.

“I’m still going for a walk,” Abby reiterated, picking up her satchel and turning her gaze on Raven. “He can come if he wants, or he can stay here until I get back.”

 _I’m right here,_ he thought, uncomfortable. But he wouldn’t say anything. This conversation needed to play out organically, and if he opened his mouth he might only make things worse.

Raven looked at him expectantly. “I…” he trailed off, and Raven rolled her eyes. She sent Abby a look that he guessed to mean,  _I’m not staying here with this idiot until you get back._ But that satchel was empty, and the fences weren’t electrified. There was only one place she’d be going. And as fate would have it, it was the one place he wasn’t allowed to go without a valid reason. Peacekeeper code expressly forbade it.

_Be there for her, Kane._

“I can join you,” Marcus said after a pause, but Abby’s expression didn’t change. _She needs her daughter, not me._ And he worked for the same government that would throw her into an arena and force her to fight her way out. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she’d have to fight against her best friend.

He wouldn’t blame Abby if this had been the final straw. If she never wanted to see him again. If this walk was just a cover for another argument she’d win, because it was an argument she deserved to win, because she stood on the moral high ground and Marcus didn’t know if it was too late for him to start climbing.

Abby looked from Raven to him, raising her eyebrows a fraction.

“Then let’s go,” she said. “We’re losing daylight.”

* * *

When Marcus Kane applied for Peacekeeper training, he’d never thought he’d be breaking his own rules for Abigail Griffin. Well, technically it was for her daughter, he thought with no small amount of desolation. For the promise he made to Clarke Griffin. But as he followed Abby’s slim figure as she ducked through a hole no larger than half her height and a foot wide, he found his thoughts orbiting the woman in front of him.

“Abby, I’m so-“

“Don’t,” she said firmly, turning to look at him for the first time since they left the house. Silhouetted by the evening sun, her eyes were a dark chestnut that contrasted the orange sky.

“Clarke doesn’t deserve this,” Marcus said, his tone matching her resolve. Somehow, he had to make her understand how deeply he regretted his role in this. How much he wished things were different, although he knew all the shooting stars in the world couldn’t change their fate. “If there was anything I could do to help her, I would.”

“Jake didn’t deserve it, either,” she responded with a small frown, turning away from him. “The Capitol doesn’t care what we deserve.”

Guilt surged through him as he thought of the deliveries he received from that central city, payments made to him in food and currency in exchange for accepting the position among the lowest of the districts. As he drank his wine and cooked his own meals, families in 12 struggled to feed their children. _How could I ever have been so blind?_

It was as if after twenty eight years of being sightless, he could finally see. After years and years of living in the dark to the Capitol’s wrongdoings and less-than-just practices, Abby Griffin turned on the light. And Marcus Kane didn’t like what she illuminated.

They walked side-by-side into the darkening forest, footfalls gentle against the leaves and twigs that littered the forest floor. Silence surrounded them like the evening mist, two companions embraced by a fog of misery.

Eventually, after nearly ten minutes without speaking, Marcus couldn’t resist issuing a warning.

“It’ll be dark soon,” he said, distracting himself from his restless thoughts with his words. “We should go back. Believe it or not, those fences were there for a reason.”

Abby turned her head, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. The shadows from the trees cast her in a frame of light, beams of brightness that surged around her as she spoke, and Marcus felt a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t relax.

“Go, then,” she said, lengthening her stride. “I’ve done this before.”

“I won’t leave you,” Marcus said. He tripped over a tree root in attempting to keep up with her, stumbling forward with a gasp. He caught himself before she turned around and stopped to look at him.

“I can take care of myself,” she said, placing a hand on her hip. “Being alone doesn’t bother me.”

Marcus sighed. “It isn’t safe after dark, Abby. You know that.”

“Go home, Marcus.”

_Marcus._

When had he become ‘Marcus’ to her? When had he undergone the metamorphosis from ‘Kane’ to ‘Marcus’? Had it been de-electrifying the fences? Clarke’s visits? No matter what changed it, it left him with a warmth that spread the length of his body and washed away some of the guilt that had stained him since Clarke’s name slipped past Effie’s lips. He sure as hell wasn’t leaving her now.

After spending a few moments staring at each other, daring the other person to relent, Abby began walking again. Marcus followed her from a respectable distance without argument, and in the next five minutes they reached a clearing filled with plants. She knelt down and began filling her bag, clouds of dirt erupting from the Earth as she uprooted herb after herb.

“You went to see her before she left?” Abby asked suddenly, her sentence ending on an awkwardly high pitch.

“Yes,” Marcus said, remembering the moment that felt like entire lifetimes ago when he placed his pin in Clarke’s hand and made a promise he had no idea how to keep.

“Why?” Abby asked. Her voice still held that shaky shiftiness, an emotion that was as foreign to him as the plants her fingers closed around. She wasn’t crying, her shoulders weren’t shaking, but emotion escaped her in other ways.

It took him a few moments to formulate a response. The answer was a jigsaw puzzle, and he didn’t know how best to give the woman in front of him instructions to solve it.

He felt responsible for what happened to Clarke. He’d miss her. There’d been a small flicker inside him when he told her about her father, something alien, and as frustrated as he’d been with her during her inquiries he’d admit he enjoyed having company.

“Because I had to,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Abby. I’m so sorry.”

He’d written it off as the wind through the trees before, but now it was unmistakable: Marcus heard a sniffle from her direction, glimpsed her grime-coated hands reach upward to smear saltwater and soil across her cheeks. His shoulders slumped and his heart dropped as he made his way toward her, kneeling down on the warm ground. Clarke, he realized, wasn’t the only one who deserved better.

Abby sensed his presence in the shifting of the shadows and turned to face him. Dirt formed patches of brown on her cheeks, offsetting her pale skin with streaks of darkness. Her red-rimmed eyes found his, and it was all he could do to keep from placing a hand on her shoulder or, as they’d done as children, embracing her. There was an invisible bridge between her and him in that moment, and he wasn’t sure how best to cross it. 

“How stupid of me,” she said, shoving a few more plants into her already-full bag. “To think she wouldn’t be picked.”

“That’s not stupidity,” Marcus reassured her, picking a few of the plants that he thought resembled hers and placing them in the satchel. “No one goes into reaping day expecting that.”

“But I was so sure it wouldn’t be her,” Abby said, taking one of his plants and tossing it out of the conglomeration she’d assembled _._ “We talked about her future, her and Jake and I. She’d go through this year without being reaped, and then she’d apply for the same school I went to in Five. She’d get in, then she’d graduate and get a job somewhere other than Twelve, if she could. She'd meet someone and fall in love and get married. Jake and I would visit her occasionally, but we’d keep our distance, let her have the life she always wanted. And she’d be happy.”

Abby tore a few more herbs from the ground, quickening her pace as the sun set around them and lit the sky with patches of purple and red. 

“But that’s not the way things turned out,” she continued in a trembling whisper. “And there’s nothing I can do. No amount of medicine can bring her back from the Capitol.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and she threw the collection of plants in her hand to the ground. Marcus felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. How little he knew of the Griffins as a family – he knew them individually at different times in his life, of course – but to have that foundation broken by Jake and then shattered completely by Clarke was a pain he couldn’t imagine having to endure. And instead of laying in bed and wallowing in sadness as most parents would have done, Abby Griffin had gone out to pick herbs.

“Abby,” he said softly, moving closer.

Brown gazes connected, and his breath caught in his throat. He couldn’t guarantee her daughter’s safety. He couldn’t make up for the years he’d been gone from their lives, or the idiotic, rigid man he’d been when he arrived in 12. This was where words fell short, that much he knew. But years of silence had rendered her a house of cards to him, and he was afraid that if he touched her now, whatever frail bond they’d formed would topple.

“You and Jake deserved better than this. Than everything that happened,” he whispered, words little more than a faint exhale that dissipated when it met the warm, late summer wind.

She nodded slowly, tears parting the layers of dirt and dust coating her face.

“Your mom would’ve said that God would protect her. That he’d provide for her in her time of need.”

“She would’ve,” he said.

The mention of Vera wasn’t meant to upset him or catch him off-guard – her tone was too gentle, too soft for that – but he found himself suddenly off-balance anyway. Marcus hadn’t talked to Clarke about his mother: her interest was in her father and Marcus’ memories of him, not in his past.

Marcus didn’t know if he believed in God anymore, after everything he’d seen. After the injustices to which he’d been exposed. But he knew one thing as he stared at the woman kneeling in Twelve’s moss and soil, watching tears fall from her eyes and soak into the ground below.

He believed in Abigail Griffin.

“She has a great chance,” Marcus reassured her, unable to respond to her memory of his mom. Not right now, not with the surge of emotions crashing and surging through his bloodstream with every beat of his heart. “She’s a victor’s daughter. She's smart. She’ll have sponsors.”

“You don’t know that,” Abby said. She rose from her knees, gathering her bag and brushing dust from her patched pants. “Being Jake’s daughter doesn’t change where she’s from. People in the Capitol don’t care about tributes from Twelve.”

The words came out before the filters in his brain could stop them.

“She’s not just Jake’s daughter."

Marcus looked at Abby. Abby looked at Marcus.

She parted her lips slightly as one of her arms reached out to him – could she really have been helping him up, after all this? – a shaky smile turning the ends of her mouth upward. Unwilling to break the moment he reached out to her, holding her hand in his as he rose from the grass.

The electricity in her touch sent a jolt through him, filling him with warmth as their hands entwined. Time had changed many things about Marcus Kane – it added wrinkles to his face, removed memories that had once been vivid and sensory as the summer sunset – but it hadn’t changed the mesmerizing quality of her touch. She let go as soon as his legs straightened, but the ghost of her contact tingled on his skin long after her hand returned to her side.

Then, without another word, she closed the distance between them and wrapped him a tight embrace.

All the air in Marcus’ lungs evaporated from the moment her arms encircled his torso, and it took him a few seconds to figure out how to raise his heavy arms and hold her back. Logical thought vaporized with her embrace, and he had to consciously remind himself to breathe. She was closer to him than she’d been since…well, since the day he left for training. He’d forgotten what being close to her felt like.

For once they weren’t fighting, bickering, yelling at each other or slamming doors. For once, she held him as if he were still the boy who’d been her friend as a child, the boy who left and came back spouting the Capitol’s words and wearing the Capitol’s uniform and, for all intents and purposes, was one of them.

Then the reason Abby embraced him made itself clear, and his heart sank. He’d told himself he wouldn’t promise her anything he couldn’t give, but standing here with her in his arms he realized there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. For Clarke.

So he said the thing he told himself he wouldn’t say.

“She’ll be okay.”

He whispered the beautiful lie into her hair, letting his eyes slip closed as the setting sun cast a halo around the crown of her head. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, but he found himself running his fingers up and down her back in an attempt to comfort her. The material of her shirt was thinner than he could have ever imagined, and through it he felt…

_Scars._

Scars he’d given her. Pain he couldn’t take away, just like the pain of losing Clarke. The pain of losing Jake.

Without realizing it, he went rigid in her arms. Abby sensed his tenseness and pulled away, looking up at him with a mixture of confusion and understanding in her brown irises.

She opened her mouth, but the snapping of a twig spoke for her. It was close – too close for comfort – and Marcus stepped in front of her protectively.

“We need to get home,” he said, and Abby nodded. Out of the darkness a figure emerged, cloaked in shadow, sprinting past them toward the fence.

“Hey!” Marcus shouted, slipping into his role as Peacekeeper. “You’re not supposed to be out here!”

The silhouette didn’t turn around, and Abby picked up her satchel and began walking back toward the fence at a jog. Marcus followed her. Technically he was obligated to catch the trespasser, but…he was utterly unwilling to let Abby out of his sight. They’d been sprinting away from something, and he’d be prey to it himself before he’d let it catch her.

Thankfully, he had no reason to worry.

Soon enough they ducked through the opening and walked back to 12, moon rising steadily in the sky as they paused for a moment to catch their breath.

“You weren’t supposed to be out there either, _Peacekeeper_ ,” Abby said with a wan, sad smile that Marcus returned.

“On the contrary,” he said. “That’s part of my job.”


	16. Interview Night

For the third night in a row, Abby woke up at midnight in a cold sweat.

It had been awhile since the nightmares had been this potent. But she was no stranger to the terror that froze her soul, fear that stopped her heart when she jolted awake, already screaming into her pillow.

Yet things were different now, changed in ways that allowed those moonlight demons to break free from their chains. Abby had her daughter to comfort her before, before the worst thing imaginable happened and ripped that tiny solace away. Clarke had always come running down the hallway and into her room, throwing open the door to ensure she was okay. And that had offered a level of comfort, a layer of battle armor against the night terrors.

The nightmares weren’t only about Jake. Not anymore.

With an exhausted sigh, she threw off the covers on her bed and trudged down the steps, wandering aimlessly through the empty house. She couldn’t let her gaze fall on those pictures – the ones of Clarke and Jake together, smiling and laughing – without getting a pit in her stomach.  _It wasn’t supposed to be like this._

Without Clarke the house was too huge, too overwhelming. It didn’t feel so overpowering during the day when she helped her patients (or her new Raven-recommended, miner-turned-doctor assistant, Jackson, offered his aid). But at night, with Jackson gone and Clarke in the Capitol, she felt as though she could walk every inch of her home and not recognize a single object. Without the people who made it home, it was just a house.

That thought stuck in her head as she made her way toward the kitchen, clamoring for a midnight snack, the only thing she could think of to pass the endless time between night and dawn. She stumbled into her kitchen table, bumping her shin against the closest wooden chair, wincing, turning on the light. And there rested a box, the contents of which she’d tried to refuse: some of Marcus’ rations from the Capitol.

Looking at the metal crate emblazoned with the Capitol logo, she remembered how adamant he’d been about getting her to accept the food.

“Marcus, I’m capable of making food for myself,” she'd insisted, trying to shove the crate back into his arms the day after he’d come with her into the woods. 

“I know. But I insist,” Marcus said. He held his arms out, unwilling to take the food back to his home. “There’s plenty where this came from.”

After ten minutes of bickering, she was left with no choice but to accept. So she took the crate and set it on her table, fully intending to give it to patients or Raven or Jackson or...well, anyone but herself. And for the past four days, that was where it remained. For the past four days, she hadn’t thought to open it.

Things were different now.

Sitting down in a chair and landing with a soft _thud,_ she lifted the lid to truly examine what sat inside. There was bread, plenty of bread, and strawberry jam she assumed was from District 9. There was fish from District 4 in a sealed, self-refrigerated container and there was corn from District 11. The food almost appeared layered, with levels upon levels of delicacies District 12 could never have imagined. Her patients, she thought, would be delighted. 

But most of all, she found as she lifted a container of fresh vegetables, there was _chocolate_.

Abby hadn’t had such a treat often as a child: although she and her family never wanted for money, it had been a delicacy even they couldn’t afford. Jake had, upon occasion, been able to purchase a piece or two from the mayor’s daughter and shared it with Marcus and her. But it had never been a constant in her life, and her tongue only faintly tingled with the memory of how it might taste. How she imagined, after all these years, it tasted.

For a moment, she wondered if it would be better for her leave those silver wrappers sealed. That sweet treat had been something she shared with Jake and Marcus, and then, years later, just Jake. Would it be wrong, discordant, to eat it again now? To dull the fond memory with her current pain?

 _To hell with it_ , she thought.

Abby Griffin needed some chocolate. And thanks to Marcus Kane, she had some.

* * *

“Do you need my help?” Marcus asked, leaning against the counter, and Abby almost dropped the barely-balanced tray of medical instruments she’d been carrying over to wash.

“With _what_?” she asked. She already had Jackson to help with her patients, and Marcus had no formal medical training. Jackson had at least grown up with a knowledge of herbs, and taught himself medicine through textbooks he'd bartered for from the Hob: Marcus knew as much about patient care as he did about mining. 

“Delivering medicine,” he said. “Clarke used to help you with it, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Abby answered. “But I can manage.”

He was quiet for a few moments, and an inexplicable guilt began stirring in her chest. They hadn’t talked about the hug she’d given him in the forest, although she relived it in Marcus’ eyes every time he looked at her.

It had been simple, really: she needed comfort, and Marcus was there. And Marcus was _Marcus_ , her childhood friend, a man who acted more and more like a grown-up version of the boy she’d known and less and less like a Capitol drone. He’d relaxed Twelve’s curfew substantially and allowed the Hob to operate for a few days during the week. More than once, she’d glimpsed him giving food to children who played on the streets, kneeling down to place loaves of breads in their hands. 

Part of her wondered about the cause of his personality overhaul – where that strict, rigid man of the law had escaped to and if he’d make a return – but another part of her, a quiet, exhausted part, didn’t give a damn. With Clarke gone to the Capitol she didn’t have the strength to maintain her anger at him, nor did she believe she had as much a reason to keep her fiery rage fueled.

“Are you sure?” he asked, and she hesitated. She and Jackson could handle things from a medical standpoint, but for how long? He wasn’t as adept as Clarke, and Abby didn’t yet feel comfortable leaving everything to him.

She sighed, and Marcus stepped around the counter to stand next to her.

“If you don’t want me to help, that’s fine,” he said, his voice soft. _Damn it all._

“You can help,” she said, “but only if you stop bringing me food. Honestly, Marcus. I don’t need whatever the Capitol’s sending you.”

The taste of chocolate spread across her tongue, smooth and sweet, and she swallowed hard. 

“Abby, I don’t need it either,” he said, picking up a towel to help her dry instruments. “They send too much for one person.”

She looked over at him from the other side of the sink, raising her eyebrows as he continued drying her tools. He wouldn’t make eye contact with her, instead focusing on the towel and absorbing each drop of water from the instruments’ surface.

“That’s the deal,” she said. “Take it or leave it, Marcus.”

Somewhat sullenly, he agreed. They continued washing and drying tools from the day’s patients, and finished the work in less than ten minutes.

Then it got quiet.

For Abby, it was too quiet. Quiet was the bane of her existence, the thorn in her side. Quiet let her thoughts drift to Clarke, to the training she’d undergone, to how beautiful she looked in the tribute parade and the interviews they’d be airing tonight. Quiet reminded her of what would happen tomorrow.

“Interviews are tonight,” she blurted, unable to halt the spinning cycle of her Clarke-ridden thoughts. Marcus, who had been drying his hands after letting the water out of the sink, tensed immediately.

“They are,” he said.

She didn’t have to see his face to know they were thinking the same thing. Clarke and Wells had made quite an entrance at the tribute parade. Instead of dressing them in a coal miner’s getup – what the tributes from Twelve usually wore to the event – the stylist had played on a common misconception: that coal turned to diamonds when pressed hard enough. Of course it wasn’t accurate, but no one in the Capitol seemed to notice. They were too busy making a fuss over the rows of crystals on Clarke’s dress that shimmered in the light and reflected every color of the rainbow, making her appear regal and refined. She had a crown, too, that dripped crystals down the side of her face and disappeared into the high ponytail of her blonde hair.

Wells had reached for her hand in the middle of the parade and she’d held it, raising their joined hands above their heads in a show of unity that the announcers adored. She looked, Abby thought, every bit like a victor’s daughter.

She’d also be helped by her score in training. Clarke had somehow managed to get an eleven, an unheard-of high rank. Whether it was medical expertise or her quick learning abilities, she didn’t know. But it was clear that Clarke wouldn’t be completely defenseless when…

She couldn’t think about it.

“Abby?” she heard Marcus say, drawing her back to the present.

“Sorry,” she said, wondering how long he’d been trying to get her attention.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “It’s a big night for her.”

“It is,” she agreed quietly. Marcus seemed to sense her trepidation, offering her comfort instead of pressing the subject.

“She’ll do well,” he said, returning to his previous position of leaning against the countertop. "You don't need to be worried, Abby."

“She hates the Capitol,” Abby responded. “Tell me how that’s going to make a good interview.”

“I know she hated _me_ ,” he said, and she didn't have to look at him to know he was smiling. “But she made me like her from the moment I stepped off the train.”

Abby walked over to stand next to him, resting her lower back against the cool stone. The ache in her muscles was nothing compared to the ache in her heart.

“Well, that’s her father in her,” she said with a small smile.

“He didn’t have to, though,” Marcus responded. “Make anyone like him, I mean. People loved him from the moment they met him, and I’m guessing it’s the same with Clarke.”

“They’re similar that way,” Abby agreed. While Clarke had always been closest to Wells, and then to Raven, she’d never had trouble making friends.

“You weren’t _unpopular_ , either,” Marcus said, a note of teasing in his tone. “I don’t seem to remember you struggling to fit in.”

“That was because I had you and Jake,” Abby said, turning to face him. “If I hadn’t sat down in his seat on the first day of class, I probably would’ve-“

“Been fine and made other friends,” Marcus interrupted her before she could finish, smiling. “Everyone loved you, Abby.”

She’d had a response, she really did, but she made the mistake of looking in his chocolate eyes before she spoke. Where previously she’d only seen loathing and resentment, she now glimpsed empathy, kindness, and…

They _really_ needed to talk about that hug.

Marcus seemed to understand he’d made things awkward. “I just meant that even if she hates the Capitol with every bone in her body, I don’t think we’ll see it tonight. Clarke’s smarter than that,” he said. Abby nodded, looking around the kitchen, trying to think about anything but that ill-thought-out embrace. Her gaze came to rest on the entryway, where an undelivered bag of medicine sat next to the closed door. Apparently Jackson had thought it was her day to do deliveries, and she thought it was his.

“Shit!” Abby exclaimed, and Marcus jumped.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, clearly worried that her reaction had to do with Clarke. She explained the situation to him, and he volunteered to take the medicine to the recipients.

“I’ll go with you,” Abby insisted, cheeks flushing red. It had probably been her day to do deliveries, but with her lack of sleep…things slipped through the cracks, and today the satchel of medicine had fallen through. “This is my fault.”

Marcus tilted his head to the side and sighed a little, a gesture Abby had learned meant, in no uncertain terms, “no.”

“The broadcast starts in twenty minutes,” he said. “You don’t have to miss Clarke because of this. I’ll take care of it.”

Abby looked from Marcus to the clock to Marcus again, trying to make calculations while her head spun. _If we both go, and we each take half of the medicines, I could be back here by…_

Seven-thirty. By then, Clarke’s interview might already have aired.

“Then you’ll miss her interview,” Abby said. While Clarke wasn’t his daughter, she knew there was a bond between them. 

“They’re played on a loop,” Marcus said, and Abby thought he did a splendid job of pretending not to sound pained. “I can watch it again after I’m done with deliveries.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and she relented.

“Thank you,” she said, resisting the urge to hug him again before they’d even talked about the first one, about how it might mean very different things to both of them. “Marcus, thank you so much.” 

* * *

“My husband thanks you, too, Peacekeeper Kane,” a woman in a rickety house said, clutching the medicine he'd given her while throwing her arms around him. “All the work in the mines has injured his back. Without this, he can’t get out of bed.”

Marcus nodded, overwhelmed by her appreciation. How did Abby deal with this?

"Have a good night," he said a little stiffly, extracting himself from her grip. She wished him the same, teary-eyed, and the door closed. He turned and left, checking his watch in the twilight. Clarke’s interview had likely already aired. The repeat footage wouldn’t show for a few hours. If he was where he thought he was on the District’s map, he needed to make a brief side trip to a familiar location. Not for selfish reasons – there wasn’t much left for him there, if anything – but for something he knew would bring Abby joy.

When the Hob didn’t have books Jake used to give Marcus some of his, old hardcovers with _Jake Griffin_  scrawled on the front inside cover. It wasn’t much, but it was _something_. And Abby needed every relic of Jake that remained in Twelve to help her through, to draw hope from her memories of him and Clarke in the coming weeks.

So he turned a corner and walked through the yard he’d played in as a child, striding through overgrown grass and years of memories.

The door was stuck, he noted with chagrin, and it took him a few minutes to force it open. Thankfully, no citizens were lurking on the streets - the Capitol's broadcasts made sure of that. As the decades-old wood finally yielded to his shoulder, he strode through the opening and closed the door behind him. No need to invite the rest of Twelve inside.

 

“Don’t move,” a low voice behind him ordered, combined with the unmistakable sensation of metal being pressed against the back of his neck. “If you took anything, drop it now.”

Fighting a panic that bubbled in his chest, he tried to remember where to find a lightswitch. Hadn't there been one just to the left of the knob? If he could catch a glimpse of the person, he could report them to Thelonious...if he made it past his own front door.

“Take it easy,” Marcus said, slowly sliding his hand in the direction of the switch, praying there might be a little stored electricity left from years of non-use. “I’m not here to steal from you.” 

“Sure,” the voice said. “Then leave, and we’ll forget about it.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Marcus responded as his fingers curled over worn, brittle plastic. 

In one fluid motion he flicked on the light _,_ flooding the home with a golden glow that threw his attacker off-guard. Taking advantage of the situation, Marcus snatched the weapon from the man’s hands and shoved him away, sending him stumbling back into the interior of his home.

When he turned to get a look at his assailant, Marcus found he wasn’t at all what he’d expected.

The man before him was more boy than man: no older than twenty, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a dusting of freckles across his cheekbones. He stood protectively in front of a girl who appeared a few years younger than him, with the same facial features and long, raven hair. If he had to guess, he’d assume they were siblings.

“What the _hell_ , Bellamy?” the girl yelled, shoving the boy a more few feet in her anger. “He’s a Peacekeeper!”

“I’m sorry, O!” the boy, Bellamy, apologized. “I didn’t know!”

“Yeah, that’ll work on Jaha.”

“I was trying to protect you!”

“I told you, I don't need you to protect me!”

 _Protect you._ Marcus didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but from the sparseness of the house, the lack of adults… He’d heard the stories, of course. Parents with too many mouths to feed, turning their children out into the cold. Or, on the contrary, parents who gave all their food to their children and ended up sacrificing themselves for it.

Marcus wondered which type these children’s parents had been.

“Who said I was turning you in?” Marcus interrupted their bickering, and they both stared at him, wide-eyed and openmouthed, as if seeing him for the first time.

“But you’re a…” Bellamy started, and the girl elbowed him in the ribs.

“I’m good with a bow,” she said, not bothering with pleasantries. “I can get you a deer and some turkeys if you keep quiet about this.”

Marcus could have smiled: for all her rage about her brother's actions, she wasn't exactly being shy about sneaking past the fences. The mysterious figure that ran past them that night had escaped his memory until now, although he wondered…

“Were you in the woods a few nights ago?” he asked the girl, and her eyes widened. Clearly, she hadn’t thought about her statement before making it. The boy put his head in his hands.

“Great job, Octavia.”

“Why do you want to know?” the girl asked him, ignoring her brother’s comment.

Marcus shrugged.

“Call it curiosity,” he said calmly, trying to de-escalate the tension that surged through the room.

Bellamy stepped forward, shoving Octavia behind him.

“Our parents are going to be here in a few hours,” he said, but his panic was evident, living in the set of his jaw and the bead of sweat that tricked down his tanned brow. “If you need to talk to them, you can come back then.”

“If all you’re doing is living in my old home and going outside the fence, I’m not going to turn you in. You have my word,” Marcus said firmly, and both of the kids relaxed. Bellamy let Octavia walk toward him again, and the two siblings stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder in front of him.

“In that case, welcome home,” Bellamy said, clearly relieved. “I don’t think we changed the place much.”

Marcus looked around at the peeling green wallpaper, the toppled stacks of books from which cobwebs hung like dusty chandeliers. His mother’s tiny tree sat on its same windowsill perch, and he made a mental note to take it with him if neither of the kids wanted it.

“No,” he said, giving the boy back his gun and walking past them into the house of memories. “No, you didn’t.” 

* * *

“How did the two of you end up here?” Marcus asked, sorting through books on the floor of what used to be his room. He’d been searching for one in particular, but he hadn’t been able to find it. Could he have taken it with him to training? He didn’t remember taking any books, but if he hadn’t removed it from his home it would be here: nothing in his room had been changed.

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to turn us in,” Bellamy said, kneeling carefully next to him among the scattered pages.

“You’re orphans, and you go outside the fence to provide for yourselves,” Marcus said, looking Bellamy in the eyes. “For the _third_ time, I won’t let you and your sister become Avoxes. But I used to live here. It’s not exactly a conventional choice.”

The years hadn’t been kind to the house he’d once shared with Vera Kane. Wallpaper peeled back to reveal patches of mold, carpets were damp with mildew, and the pages of his well-loved novels had warped with improper care. The healthiest thing in the house – including the siblings who lived there - was his mother’s tree.

“There was nowhere for us to go,” Bellamy said. “We didn’t have a home, not even before Octavia was born. We talked about leaving the district as a family, living in the woods, but our mom got sick. The last thing she told me was that I had to take care of Octavia. That she was my sister, my responsibility.”

He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

“But O was too young to go into the woods. We wouldn’t have made it to another district, so we looked for abandoned places here. This is all we have.”

“Does anyone know you two are here?” Marcus asked, dusting layers of grime from the cover of one of his old books. “Anyone from school?”

“I don’t think so,” Bellamy said. “We never went to school.”

“How long have you been on your own?” Marcus asked through a cough, the dust and dirt settling inside his throat. One thing was certain: these kids were strong. If Marcus hadn’t had Abby, Jake and his mother, he knew he wouldn’t have made it in Twelve.

“A few years,” Octavia chimed in from across the room. “Bellamy’s old enough, so we don’t have to go to the community home. Why do you care? And what the hell are you looking for?”

Bellamy glared at her, but her expression remained stoic.

It was a valid question – why _did_ he care? He could’ve looked through his books in silence, ignoring the siblings. But something in the boy’s determination, his drive to protect the person he loved most, reminded Marcus of a younger version of himself. If Bellamy had decided to leave Octavia, he could’ve made it to a different District or lived in the woods by himself. But instead he remained by her side, taking care of her, being the older brother his mom needed him to be. Marcus admired that.

“I’m looking for an old book that a friend gave me,” he said with a sigh, all but resigned to the fact that he’d never see it again. “By Charles Dickens. _Great Expectations._ ”

Bellamy looked at him with a small scowl, standing up abruptly.

“I haven’t finished it yet,” he muttered, and Marcus couldn’t hold back a grin. He wasn't surprised that Bellamy liked to read.

“You didn’t answer my other question,” Octavia said. Marcus turned to her, finally able to see her clearly without Bellamy obstructing his line of sight.

She was thin, as most children in 12 were, but she wasn’t frail: her arms and legs were lined with layers of muscle. Her hair was braided on the sides in a fashion Marcus almost mistook as being Capitol-esque – he’d never seen that kind of intricacy outside the city – but assumed her mother must have taught her how to braid her hair. Where Bellamy’s eyes displayed compassion and empathy, hers were windows to a roaring fire.

It became clear to him Octavia was the fire to her brother’s water, the storm to his calm. Smiling, he realized she reminded him of someone.

He didn’t have time to answer her before Bellamy returned, book in hand.

“Here,” he said sullenly. “But now I get to ask a question.”

“Don’t count on him answering it, Bell,” Octavia interjected, sarcastic. 

“Why do you need this book? And why now? You’ve been our Peacekeeper for a few months. If it’s so important to you, you could’ve come and taken it when you got here.”

_Shit._

He opened the front cover quickly, just to make sure, and let out a sigh of relief. There, on the top of the white inner binding read faded words in blurry ink: _property of Jake Griffin._

“I…” he trailed off, unsure how best to explain it. “I’m giving it to a friend. She needs it more than I do. Neither of us needed it before.”

“The woman you were hugging in the forest?” Octavia said. “Wasn’t that Abby Griffin?”

Clearly, the person who ran past them that night had been Octavia.

“Do you know her?” Marcus asked, answering her question with another.

“No,” Bellamy said, suddenly sounding bitter. “We don’t go into the Victor’s Village.”

‘Then how did you-“

“I knew Clarke, a while ago. She talked about her mom.”

The look in the boy’s eyes told Marcus to drop the subject, and so he did.

“Do you need any food?” he asked as he rose to his feet, changing the topic of conversation. He knew Bellamy had just claimed they didn’t need help, but the house was dilapidated. The humidity in the air made his stomach churn. Marcus felt the least he could do was offer them something other than deer and turkey, something more substantial. “I have more than enough.”

Bellamy shook his head.

“We don’t.” Then, after a moment of consideration, “But thank you, sir.”

An answer received, Marcus made his way back toward the front door. He paused for a moment by his mother’s tree, observing its healthiness. Its leaves were the green of the forest after a rainfall, and its trunk, though tiny, was strong.

“That’s mine,” Octavia said in a rush, oblivious to the history the tree and Marcus shared. She stepped protectively in front of it, just as Bellamy had protected her. “Someday I’m going to plant it in the forest.”

There was no way for Octavia to know, but that was what Vera had always said - that one day, she was going to return the tree to its home, to the woods. Taken aback by the girl’s use of her mother’s words, Marcus could only nod.

“Thank you for keeping it safe,” he said, and with another glance at Bellamy left his childhood home to its new owners. 

* * *

Ceasar’s hair was a powdered blue this year, dyed to match his scarily-thick eyebrows and garish suit. In years past, Marcus had almost been able to chuckle at the announcer’s misplaced grandeur.

This year was different. He hadn’t made it back to his home in time to see the first airing of Clarke’s interview, but much to his chagrin, he had to watch all of the repeat program. Particularly worrisome to him was a girl from District 1 named Ontari, who said she’d trained for the Games her whole life.

Thankfully, he had a glass of bourbon to help him cope.

Clarke displayed none of Ontari's arrogance. Arrogance, Marcus knew, could be a big problem when it came to sponsorships - at least for the lower districts, the districts no one expected to win. Unfortunately, because Ontari was from one of the highest-ranking districts, she would have gifts being sent her way almost every day. 

Ceasar called for Clarke Griffin to come onstage, and Marcus’ jaw dropped. The stylist had continued the coal-to-diamonds theme, but in a completely different way. The floor-length dress slowly went from dull black to shimmering white the longer she was onstage, enveloping her in a light so bright it hurt to look at the screen. Clarke looked, he thought, much like a diamond herself. Shimmering, and unbreakable.

“Wow, wow, wow!” Ceasar exclaimed as Clarke twirled, revealing the layers of sparkling crystal beneath the dress’ black exterior. “I’ve never seen anything like this before! How exquisite! Am I right?”

The audience erupted in cheers, and Marcus smiled. She had certainly made another memorable entrance.

Ceasar guided her into an uncomfortable-looking chair, bright red and vaguely bowl-shaped. For the first time Clarke stared directly into the camera, and Marcus cringed: from the set of her jaw and the way her hands rested interwoven on her lap, he could tell she was nervous. She had reason to be – she was a long way from home, trying to convince people she despised that she was interesting enough, pretty enough, deadly enough to deserve their time and money.

Ceasar asked how she was enjoying Capitol life, and Clarke looked at him as if he’d spoken a different language. Marcus cringed. The interviews were so short, and she could hardly afford to waste time in asking Caesar Flickerman to repeat himself.

“What?” she asked, raising her eyebrows, and Ceasar grinned.

“I think someone’s a bit nervous.”

Thankfully, the audience laughed. Marcus allowed himself a sigh of relief, willed his racing heartbeat to slow. They found her inexperience endearing, her nervousness charming. 

Ceasar asked her his question again: “How are you enjoying life in the Capitol, Miss Griffin?”

Her composed expression faltered and gave way to a frown, if only for a second, and Marcus’ stomach dropped. He prayed she wouldn’t say something insulting, something that would work against her in the arena.

“The art supplies are better here,” she said with a small smile, and Ceasar clapped his hands. Marcus exhaled in relief, taking a sip of bourbon straight from the bottle.

“The art supplies,” the announcer repeated, raising a sparkly eyebrow. “You truly are your father’s daughter, Clarke Griffin.”

“I guess so,” she said, and Marcus knew her smile then was genuine. _Just keep talking about your dad, Clarke._ As long as she talked about him, she knew her interview would do nothing but gain her sponsors.

“It was such a tragedy, what happened a year ago,” Ceasar said, face contorting into an impressive façade of grief. “You must miss him _horribly_.”

“I do,” Clarke said, blinking in surprise. It was clear that although her mentors had prepared her for this, they hadn't exactly briefed her on the fact that her father might come up. “I miss him every day.”

Ceasar leaned closer, placing a hand over hers. Clarke looked as though she wanted to pull away, stiffening a bit when they connected. Then, as if remembering her purpose - the goal of these feeble two minutes - she relaxed.

“I don’t want to push you too far. It’s okay if you don’t answer this, Clarke. But we’re all wondering…what did you say to him, before he left to get on the train?”

She paled, and Marcus nearly threw his glass bottle at the television screen. Asking such a personal question had to be against some Capitol rule. Didn’t it? Were there any rules, where the Games were concerned?

“I told him I loved him,” she stammered. “And that I’d see him when he got back.”

A chorus of _‘awwwwww’s_ rang from the audience, and Clarke started to blink rapidly, swallowing hard. Marcus could tell she was trying not to cry, and wondered if her mentors had told her that action would make her look weak. It might, he knew, but empathy was also a powerful tool. If she let a few tears fall, it might not be the worst thing for her.

“And what did he say to you, Clarke Griffin?”

“I didn’t want him to go, and I told him that. But he told me not to be afraid,” she said, raising her chin against the glimmering Capitol lights the weight of her headpiece. “He told me he loved me, and not to be afraid. I didn’t know what he meant until now.”

Ceasar paused to wipe tears from his eyes, looking directly into the camera.

“And what did he mean?”

Her gaze turned to steel, and for a sickening moment Marcus wondered if Clarke was going to accuse the Capitol of assassinating her father on live television.

“He meant that no matter what I’m facing – him leaving or the arena tomorrow – I can’t ease my pain. I have to overcome it. And I have.”

 

The applause was deafening as Ceasar announced her time was up, and Marcus leapt from his seat on the couch to cheer along with the audience. There were two people he wanted to talk to, now that all was said and done. One was on his television screen, smiling and waving at an audience he knew she despised. The other, fortunately, was within reach.

Abby had given him her number a few days earlier, insisting that winter was approaching and he could call her if he ever felt sick. He had no idea if she’d still be awake at this hour, but figured he’d try to reach her anyway.

She picked up on the first ring.

“Hello?” she said, and he could tell from the tone of her voice that she was happy, almost _bubbly_. He wasn’t the only one who’d watched the second broadcast.

“She’s not going to a have a problem with sponsors,” Marcus said. His heart jumped at the sound of her laugh – it was a lighter sound than he’d heard from her in a long time.

“You were right,” Abby said. “We had nothing to worry about.”

 _We?_ When had she started thinking of them as a unit, as a single entity? His pulse soared despite his insistence that it didn’t mean anything, although he fought to remember his next words. When he went to his brain for a simple sentence, all that came back was _we, we, we_.

Then Marcus remembered Clarke’s interview had been predominantly about Jake, Abby’s husband, the man she still clearly loved, and adrenaline turned to guilt.

For her part, Abby seemed to realize the upset her phrasing might cause and backtracked, stammering.

“I just meant she did well, and I-I know you worry about her, too.” she said. “Marcus, I should’ve listened to you.”

_Oh._

_Not “we," then._

Probably best, Marcus thought as he calmed his racing heartbeat and tried to focus on Clarke’s accomplishment.

“I know what you meant,” he said quickly, trying to dispel the awkwardness that had crept into their conversation.

For a few long seconds, quiet.

“Did you see Wells’ interview?” Abby asked. When Marcus told her he hadn’t, she informed him he really should have.

“He’s strong,” Abby said. “Thelonious shouldn’t be worried, either.”

They ignored the pillar on which the concept of the Games rested: there could be only one victor.

“Are you planning on sleeping tonight?” Abby asked, and Marcus, who had been idly twirling the cord that attached his phone to the wall, froze. What kind of question was that?

“Um…” Marcus stammered, taking his turn at an awkward laugh. “Why do you ask?”

He could hear a cringe in her voice. “I didn’t mean it like that!” she said. “But Raven and Jackson are both here, and since none of us are going to…”

 _They’re all too worried about Clarke,_ he thought, all the pieces of her puzzling behavior finally clicking together. He wasn’t likely to sleep for the same reason, but going over to Abby’s wasn’t logical for a multitude of reasons. One, he’d been drinking. He wasn’t completely drunk – if he had been, his response to her question would’ve been quite different – but he didn’t want to tempt fate. Things were finally getting better between them, and he didn’t want to accidentally ruin them again.

Two, there was no love lost between him and Raven, and while Jackson _tolerated_ him it was clear they wouldn’t be friends. Raven would probably always see him as the man who tied Abby Griffin to a whipping post, and Jackson’s information about him filtered through the young mechanic. Marcus hoped Abby could provide some amount of balance to Raven’s tales: he didn’t dislike Jackson, and thought was he was doing was noble.

Three, as he noticed his pantry had miraculously sprouted a ninth shelf and the tiles were rotating beneath his feet, he came to the conclusion he’d _really_ been drinking.

“Raven doesn’t like me,” he said weakly, searching for an excuse to free himself from her invitation.

“Really? You’re going to let a kid keep you from coming over, _Peacekeeper_ _Kane_?“

At that point, he started to wonder if Abby had been drinking, too. She was either in an excellent mood, or she was so terrified of tomorrow that she was drowning her emotions in alcohol. Either way, the situation created a toxic combination of emotion inside Marcus’ chest: he desperately needed to hold her close, to tell her everything would be okay, and he desperately needed to stay away from her until they were both sober.

“Marcus?” Abby said, and he heard Raven’s voice in the background. “ _I can pour my own glass, Jackson! God!”_

Oh, they were definitely drinking.

“Yes?” he answered. His head suddenly felt foggy and his thoughts slow, as if the conscious realization he was slightly tipsy had boosted his symptoms.

“You’re still there,” she said, sounding relieved. “I wondered if you hung up.”

“I wouldn’t hang up on you," he said, meaning every word. 

“Would it make a difference if I said I _want_ you here?” she asked, simple, to the point, and his knees almost buckled. If she kept going like this, he wasn’t going to be able to find reasons to refuse.

“Abby,” he said, headache and heartbeat pounding in unison. “Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow, then?” she asked in that same, hopeful tone, and he doubted at this point if she remembered what tomorrow was: the start of the Games. But the alcohol in his bloodstream reminded him how sick he was of saying no to her, how it broke him a little more every time that single syllable left his lips.

“I’ll come over tomorrow,” he agreed.

“Okay,” Abby said. “I miss you.”

The small, sober, Peacekeeper part of him knew it was a bad idea to read anything into a single word she said right now. She and Jackson and Raven could have been drinking for hours, no matter how sober she sounded when she first picked up the phone. And in fact, if Raven supplied the alcohol, they probably were drinking from the moment Clarke’s interview ended. In the morning, Abby wouldn’t remember that this conversation had ever occurred.

The drunk part of him didn’t care. Drunk Marcus was composed of emotion and sensation, and drunk Marcus couldn’t believe she’d actually said those words. There were so many things he could have said back to her, things his alcohol-addled brain threw at him to see if they stuck; _I miss you all the time. I missed you for 28 years._

But sober, Peacekeeper Marcus won, and all he said in response was,

“I miss you, too.”


	17. Hope

Marcus visited the next day in the late afternoon, after the last of Abby’s patients had been tended to and Jackson went home. He helped her clean up after her long day of work, offered to help her prepare a meal, kept her company until after the sun had slowly sunk beneath the horizon and left District 12 with a glowing purple sky, left them sitting in her living room and waiting for the inevitable. He was oddly quiet today, Abby thought as he leaned against the back of the armchair in her living room. Not that Marcus had ever been particularly chatty, but…

“Are you okay?” Abby asked, slightly confused. He nodded, but the gesture couldn’t convince her. “If something’s bothering you, you can tell me.”

“I’m fine,” Marcus said. His voice held an unusual, unnerving emptiness, and it was all Abby could do not to sit down next to him and demand he tell her what was wrong. She needed him more than ever tonight, and it almost seemed like he’d deliberately chosen tonight to pull away. Why? 

“How are you feeling?” Marcus asked slowly, as if he expected a certain answer to his question. As if he already had the answer, and was waiting for confirmation.

 _Oh, God._ It all came back in a rush. The phone call after the second showing of Clarke’s interview. How completely drunk she’d been. Referring to them as a unit, practically begging him to come over, and telling him she missed him…her cheeks flushed and she looked away.  _How mortifying._

Saying she missed him, just like that – no filter, no common-sense restrictions - the memory made her wish she could go back in time and smack her own hand before she could pick up the phone. Not because she didn’t miss him, or because didn’t feel a hole in her heart widening every time he walked out the door. Lately, she’d been contemplating calling him without a distinct reason, just to hear his voice. But he was a Peacekeeper, a man sworn to duty in the Capitol, and no matter how many rules he changed, how many fences he de-electrified fences, or how much he cared about her daughter, he couldn’t change that. Marcus had explained to her that Peacekeepership wasn’t a job that an officer could just leave: the only way out, it seemed, was retirement after at least forty years of working for the force. If someone tried to leave before then or abandoned their post, consequences would be severe. Unlike Jackson, Marcus couldn’t leave his job.

And everything Clarke’s journey to the Capitol had resurfaced about Jake, about their family…she was suddenly more aware of the ring around her neck, of her memories of the man who gave it to her. The man she loved. The man she’d always love. Was it a betrayal to him, she wondered, to tell Marcus she missed him? Even to miss him, without verbalizing it?

Had she betrayed Jake by letting Marcus back into her life so easily? Well, it hadn’t exactly been _easy_ – they’d fought tooth and nail for months – but they hadn’t discussed his years of silence. They tiptoed around the topic, shoved it in a room and locked the door, instead of walking through it or letting it out into the open.

A discussion needed to be had. That much Abby knew, but with Clarke in the arena there were bigger things to worry about than her history with Marcus Kane. For now, she’d keep missing him when he left and stop trying to untie the knot into which her feelings tangled themselves.

“Abby?” Marcus said, and she jumped. “I’m sorry,” he apologized.

She laughed, a sound weighed down with sadness and concern.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I was just thinking.”

“What about?” he asked, and she swallowed hard.

_About you._

“How drunk I was last night,” she said, and it was his turn to laugh.

“Well, I wasn't exactly sober myself,” he said, turning to her with a smile that made it apparent all was forgiven. 

“I shouldn’t have picked up,” she elaborated, trying to ignore how her heart had begun to race. “If I’d known you were going to call…”

“You were worried about Clarke,” Marcus said. “I don’t blame you.”

The Games coverage started in less than ten minutes, and they both knew it. It was evident from the way Marcus wrung his hands in his lap and bounced his leg against the patterned rug, from the way Abby played with Jake’s ring on its chain and twisted a strand of hair that fell outside her ponytail around her pointer finger. Through a haze, she recalled something else about their phone conversation, something she wasn’t sure if even he remembered.

“Marcus?” she asked, a sudden shyness washing over her.

“Yes?”

“Do you…” she started, then paused to rub her temples. Why was it so hard to get the words out now that she was sober? If she poured herself a glass of wine, would it make this easier? “Would you stay with me tonight? To watch the Games?”

His eyes widened and he stiffened a bit against the back of the chair. 

“Abby, I’m not going to hold you to something you said when you were drunk,” he said, the corners of his lips turning upward in an understanding smile. “If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

 _I don’t,_ she almost blurted. _I don’t want you to go._

Raven, she guessed, was still horribly hungover: Jackson, she already knew was suffering some adverse effects from last night. If they managed to stumble over later, they might’ve already missed any footage with Clarke. If she made the wrong decision tonight, if she gave in to her fears or wasn’t careful, everything could end. Knowing that, Abby couldn’t watch the broadcast alone. If the worst would happen tonight, she needed someone there. Someone who cared about her and Clarke.

The ring around her neck burned, and she bit her lower lip to counteract the sensation.

“No,” she said quickly, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt. “Marcus, this isn’t because of what I said.”

That look, again. The look he had in his eyes when they went into the woods together, the look when he volunteered to deliver medicine for her, the look when he walked over with yet another crate of Capitol goods even when she explicitly told him not to. His eyes sparkled, if only for a second, but he blinked and the twinkle was gone.

“I’ll stay with you,” Marcus said. “If that’s what you want. I just don’t want you to feel obligated-“

In a rush she walked over to him and placed her hand over his, fingers sliding between each of his knuckles. He was soft, and warm, and felt exactly how she remembered from the hug they hadn’t talked about; a calm washed over her despite the impossible situation in which she'd found herself. He looked up at her from the decades-old chair, the chair her husband had loved, with a question in his gaze. A question Abby Griffin couldn’t answer, not with Jake’s ring dangling between them and her daughter in the arena.

“Stay, Marcus,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Okay,” he said.

She withdrew her hand and retreated to her side of the room, wondering how such a small distance could feel as though it spanned miles. In the silence her brain took it upon itself to filter through years of memories to find a single moment, the moment before Jake entered the arena. Things had been so very different, she thought, back then.

Back then they’d been sitting together, holding hands on her parents’ couch while they and Vera huddled together in the entryway. Marcus kept reassuring her that everything would be fine as the countdown began, that Jake was too smart to go running for the supplies in the center of the Cornucopia. She’d rested her head on his shoulder and he put his arm around her, and she’d been overwhelmed by the idea that everything would be okay.

Things were so very different, she thought, now.

Now they sat across the room from each other, Marcus with his hands in his lap and her resting her chin on her wrist. She caught him glancing at her from time to time, but didn’t read anything into it: she was the only other person in the house, after all.

The distance was almost too much for her to bear as the minutes marched onward. With three left until the broadcast, she nearly opened her mouth and asked him if he’d sit on the couch with her, if he’d wrap his arm around her as he’d done when she was only sixteen. Age had no claim on her emotions, and the panic she felt at what Clarke was about to endure was damning. If she could rest her head on him, breathe in his scent, maybe she’d stop feeling so dizzy.

“She’s too smart to go for the center,” Marcus said. “She’s going to be fine.”

Clarke barely featured in the footage that night, as it centered mostly around the tributes from Career districts. A blessing and a curse, Abby thought. While she was relieved that her daughter was out of danger for the time being, the lack of coverage made it easier to focus on other things. Namely, the man sitting across the room from her.

The doorbell sounded, and Marcus stood up to answer it. Abby glanced away from the screen for a moment, confused.

“They could show Clarke again,” Marcus said as he made his way to the door. “You can let me know if anything else happens.”

“I think that’s Raven,” Abby said, and he flinched.

“I can still get it,” he said, notably less enthusiastic. Abby shook her head.

“It’s okay,” she said. “They’re probably done showing Clarke and Wells for tonight, now that they’re safe.”

 _They’re safe,_ she reassured herself. _Both of them. They’re okay._

But even that wouldn’t dissolve the pit of worry in her stomach.

Abby brushed past him to answer the door, and she pulled back on the brass handle to reveal an exhausted-looking Raven Reyes standing on her porch.

“She’s good, right?” Raven said. “I don’t think I missed anything important.”

“She’s good,” Abby said with a warm smile, inviting her in. “Thankfully.”

The smile masked a new anxiety: despite the number of times she’d been to see Abby for her leg, Raven had no idea she had mended her friendship with Marcus and wasn’t likely to approve. The mechanic had made no secret of her disdain for him, even after he de-electrified the fences and relaxed curfews. Finding him here…Abby had no way of knowing how Raven would react, but she didn’t think it’d be pleasant.

There was only one way to find out.

Raven pulled off her boots and wandered into the living room, self-designed brace allowing her to walk with relatively few constraints. She strode purposely toward her favorite chair, and although Abby hadn’t yet entered the room she knew when Raven located the other visitor.

“Abby, tell me this isn’t happening,” she yelled, and Abby sighed.

“I can move,” she heard Marcus say from the other room, and Raven groaned.

“This isn’t about the chair, you idiot.”

Abby walked into the room to find Marcus making his way toward the door. He paused when he reached her, regret churning in his eyes.

“I think I should go,” he said. Abby’s stomach dropped.

“Why?” she asked, although she already knew the answer.

“I was drinking last night, but it wasn’t the alcohol talking when I said Raven didn’t like me.”

“She has to get used to you, Marcus. She doesn’t know you like I do.”

He kept walking, bending down in the dimly-lit entryway to pull on and lace his worn leather boots.

“I don’t think she can tolerate me long enough for that,” he muttered, tying the laces and standing up again. “Besides, we both know they’re done showing Clarke for tonight.”

Exhaustion and anxiety made for an unstable combination, and the words were out before she could restrict them.

“Come back tomorrow,” she said.

Marcus raised his eyebrows, surprise etched in every inch of his expression. Abby knew it was reckless, impossible even, to ask him for such a thing. But his presence had helped keep her from having a nervous breakdown, and she wasn’t going to let Raven’s attitude shove him away. As uncomfortable as it felt to admit it, she needed him.

“I don’t think Raven would like that,” Marcus said, accompanying his words with his signature head-tilt.

“I don’t care,” Abby responded. She moved closer to him, making sure they were out of Raven’s line of sight. “I’ll talk to her tonight. She doesn’t understand how much you care about Clarke, too.”

Marcus stared down at her for a moment, and she waited for his answer with more anticipation than she cared to admit.

“Okay,” he said. “As long as I’m not walking into a war if I show up tomorrow.”

“You won’t be,” Abby reassured him.

He walked out into the night after they said goodbye, giving her a small wave as he went on his way.

 _I miss you,_ she thought, turning back to the girl to whom she owed an explanation, or two, or a hundred.

* * *

The next week passed in a blur.

Abby busied herself treating patients, gathering herbs and instructing Jackson, whose knowledge grew with each day he spent by her side. Clarke excelled in the Games, demonstrating skill and prowess that Abby never knew she had. Her heart broke for her daughter, for everything she endured, but she gave thanks that none of the cannon fire sounded for Clarke. For now, that was enough.

And slowly, steadily, Marcus Kane became a fixture in her day-to-day life.

If she were to be asked how it happened, she wouldn’t have had an answer. It wasn’t sudden, like turning on a light, but gradual, like a sunrise. He delivered medicine for her every day, accompanied her into the woods to collect herbs, and helped her clean her medical tools. They’d begun migrating toward each other when the Games aired, no longer trapped on opposite sides of the room – instead, they sat on the couch together, a single cushion separating them. There were times, Abby had to admit, when she considered closing that gap. When the district’s coverage of the Games ended, the screen went blank, Raven went home, and for a quiet, soft moment she allowed herself to look at him. To let her mind wander across that single cushion, to ponder what it might be like to be wrapped in his arms.

Her nostrils flared with the memory of his scent, the woodsy, musky air she’d smelled the day he held her in the woods. It was a happy memory: one of the only distinctly joyful ones in the sea of despair that had comprised her life since Clarke had been reaped.

But even that memory couldn’t keep away the nightmares.

She awoke every night with sweat pouring from her skin, the same images forming a loop behind her eyelids she was powerless to stop. The simple solution would’ve been not to sleep: if she wasn’t sleeping, her brain couldn’t hold her prisoner. But with the amount of patients she needed to see, not sleeping wasn’t an option.

So she screamed, she cried, and she waited for a sunrise that wasn’t coming.

Marcus wasn’t oblivious to her constant tiredness. Neither were Jackson or Raven, of course – they’d picked up on it a day or two after he did – but they accepted it when she said she’d been sleeping just fine. Marcus didn’t. It was a lot more difficult to convince Marcus Kane.

He was skeptical, but she wouldn’t tell him about the nightmares. What was there to tell, really? She couldn’t stop them. She doubted talking about them would put them to a halt. And frankly, it was embarrassing to be a doctor who needed healing. A doctor who couldn’t fix herself. A doctor who diagnosed her patients, treated them, and was rewarded with their gratitude, but lay her head down on her pillow at night and cried herself to sleep.

So she muddled through life through an exhausted haze, finding moments of clarity when she could.

More often than not, those brief flickers sparked in Marcus’ presence. When she was with him in the woods, walking with him on 12’s streets, she almost felt _alive_ again. The green in the trees appeared vivid again. She heard the birds singing and felt the rapidly-cooling fall air brush against her cheeks. Instead of blocking everything out, when she was with him…she could let it in.

She wouldn’t be completely whole until she had Clarke back – and she would, she told herself, she would get Clarke back – but with Marcus, she felt as though the part of her soul that left the district on the train with Clarke had begun finding its way back to her.

Abby didn’t know what to think about that, so she did her best not to think about it at all. But one thought, intrusive and unavoidable, plagued her at every turn.

_What would Jake think?_

What would he think of how close she’d become to the man who had all but forgotten their existence for nearly thirty years? Would he be angry at her for finding comfort in his presence? Would he understand? Or would he, as Abby thought he might, just want for her happiness?

Those were the queries spinning through her head when the broadcast began, distracting her from the televised atrocity she could never switch off. Raven hadn’t been able to attend that night – “I got held up in the mines, Abby, I’m sorry,” she’d said – leaving Abby and Marcus to watch the games together in a comfortable silence.

Or it had been comfortable, right up until the camera focused on her daughter’s face. Clarke, who had been walking through the woods and checking her handmade animal traps, pulled her fingers away from her nose and frowned, confused by the crimson streaking her fingers.

“Was she injured?” Marcus asked, more to himself than to Abby.

“I don’t think so,” Abby responded. Her heart had begun its nightly drumbeat in her chest, pounding against her ribcage with the force of a mallet. “I’d remember that.”

A few more drops landed on her black rainjacket, scattered to the leaves that crunched beneath her feet. Clarke sniffled, trying to get the waterfall of bleeding under control, but it was no use.

Within minutes, she collapsed and began seizing on the forest floor.

If Abby had been able to hear anything at that point, she’d have heard Ceasar Flickerman explaining the Capitol’s new addition to their veritable arsenal of ways to make life hell for tributes: biological warfare. With Clarke being one of the least-suffering tributes, it only made sense that she’d be a target.

“A pity,” Flickerman said. “She was doing incredibly well, don’t you think?”

Abby couldn’t hear him. Abby couldn’t hear much of anything. It was all she could do to keep breathing, to force air through her lungs as her breathing grew shallow and her hands began to shake. The room began to spin, and her chest tightened. _This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I can’t lose her, too._

Marcus was at her side in an instant, moving the coffee table closer to the fireplace so he could kneel in front of her trembling form.

“Abby,” he said firmly, but she could barely hear him over the ringing in her ears. “Abby, look at me. Breathe with me.”

_I can’t lose you, Clarke. I can’t. I can’t._

“Abby, breathe in with me. One, two, three.”

She tried to mimic his breathing, she really did, but her lungs wouldn’t cooperate.

“Come on, Abby. Breathe with me, Abby. One, two, three.”

The second attempt was better, and she managed to inhale through her nose and hold her breath with the man in front of her.

If she’d been able to hear anything, she would have heart the desperation in his voice. If she’d been able to see, she’d have seen the worry etched in every centimeter of his facial expression.

And slowly, she was able to see and hear again.

“That’s good,” Marcus said after her first successful inhale and exhale. “Again. Breathe in with me, Abby.”

She took a deep breath in, closed her eyes, and exhaled a loud sob.

The next thing she felt were strong arms around her, pulling her close. Doctor Abigail Griffin would’ve second-guessed what was happening, would’ve let her memories of her husband and the ring around her neck act as barriers to the man whose heartbeat she felt against her skin, whose warmth was her only tie to the rest of the concrete world.

Abby Griffin was damn tired of being _Doctor_ Abigail Griffin. For now she was just Abby, Clarke’s mom, a woman too tired to see straight, a woman who hated the Capitol but found comfort in a man who maintained their laws.

If she’d been able to think, she could’ve scoffed at the irony.

But for the moment she focused on evening out her breathing, on finding some steadiness in the world that had shifted around her. And she cried, she wailed, she screamed against his skin, turning his grey shirt black with her tears. All the while he held her, one hand stroking her back while the other held her hand.

He whispered a thousand things to her, but he didn’t bother with “it’s going to be okay.” They both knew the next few days were going to be many things, but “okay” wasn’t one of them.

“Abby,” he murmured, his beard tickling her ear. Yet another thing that had changed about Marcus Kane, she realized – he’d grown a beard. “Abby, look.”

The last thing Abigail Griffin wanted to do was fix her attention on that damn program again.

“No,” she refused, burying her face in his shoulder. He smelled the same way he had that day in the forest – like the woods after a rainfall – and somehow, that kept her calm. _He_ kept her calm. But looking at the broadcast again could undo it all in an instant.

“Abby, Wells found her. He’s taking her to a cave, and someone just sent them a gift. She’s safe.”

Her head felt ten times too heavy for her neck, as if the simple motion of raising it would cause her to tip over. But she glanced at the traitorous screen, and sure enough: her daughter was secure in Wells Jaha’s arms, unconscious as he covered the entryway with an assortment of leaves, moss, and rocks. The sponsor gift, she’d have to take Marcus’ word for.

“Thank you,” she murmured, unsure whether she meant the phrase for Wells, the sponsors, or the man who sat beside her.

If she’d turned her head to the left, she’d have seen the look in Marcus Kane’s eyes. She’d have seen the hope, the elation, the despair, the adoration. Though night expanded around them, his love for her would have been clear as day.

Abby Griffin did not turn her head to the left.

After an hour of ceaseless speculation as to Clarke’s ailment (apparently Ceasar Flickerman was none the wiser as to which disease his city engineered) the broadcast ended, and Abby was left alone with her ruminations and churning stomach.

Well, not alone. Not exactly.

Slowly, with limbs of lead, she disentangled herself from Marcus Kane.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, mortified by the tearstains on his shirt and the ordeal she’d put him through. She hadn’t been in control of it, but…she was supposed to be a doctor, for God’s sake. She wasn’t supposed to break like this.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Marcus reassured her, taking her hand. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

If she’d met his gaze then, she would’ve seen the guilt that stirred in his chocolate-brown eyes. She would have understood how he blamed himself for what Clarke was going through, for what the Capitol had done to the Griffin family.

Abby did not meet his gaze.

“Do you need me to get you anything?” Marcus asked quietly, his hand still resting lightly over hers. Abby shook her head. _Unless you can bring my daughter back from the arena, there’s nothing else I want._

She leaned against him again, resting her head on his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her and stroked her arm with his thumb. Her gaze haphazardly drifted to the grandfather clock on the wall and she recoiled – it was nearly three in the morning.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you here,” she apologized. 

She felt him shrug, her head rising and falling with the motion.

“Well,” he whispered. “This is part of my job.”

She gave a tiny, miserable laugh, snuggling closer to him as the fire withered to embers.

“Where in the Peacekeeper manual did it talk about comforting tributes’ mothers?”

“Probably under the ‘things not to do’ section,” he said. “You’re making a rebel out of me, Abby Griffin.”

“That’s part of _my_ job,” she murmured against his skin, returned enough to consciousness to register how his heartbeat sped up at her response. They both laughed, genuine sounds dampened by a night of sadness, and she moved away from him slowly with a question on her lips that she couldn’t quite expel into the smoke-scented air.

The nightmares were going to be horrid tonight, after what had happened with Clarke. There was no skirting around them, ignoring them, or staving them off. They lay in wait behind her heavy eyelids, waiting to put on a film reel of her worst memories when her consciousness turned out the light.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marcus asked, and she nodded. _For now, I’m fine._ But when he stood to leave, the loss of his weight shifting her sideways on the floral-patterned couch, every muscle in her body tensed.

What if she didn’t have to be miserable tonight? What if things could be different?

“Marcus?” she asked, and he turned around in the entryway of her home. She didn’t wait for him to answer, because if she waited for an answer she knew she’d never get the next words out. “Will you stay with me?”

He froze, and she worried he’d misinterpreted her request.

“Just to sleep,” she added hurriedly. “You were right, when you called me out before. I haven’t been sleeping without Clarke here. I get nightmares. And I guess I’m hoping that if you stay, everything won’t be so awful.”

He was quiet for a few moments, turned to stone under the plaster archway and dim firelight, and her stomach sank.

“I don’t know if I’ll be much help,” he said softly. “I get nightmares, too.”

“Then we can suffer together,” Abby insisted.

_With everything the two of us have been through, we’ll make a great pair._

That word, the connotation. _Pair._ And as Marcus removed his boots and walked back to her as the night darkened inside her home, Abby allowed herself to let go of what Jake would have thought, only if for a night. The only time she was really, truly happy now was with Marcus Kane. Damn their history. Damn the years of silence. Damn his Peacekeepership, damn the Capitol.

They could start over, be something else to each other, play a role in each other’s lives that hadn’t been filled in the present.

_A great pair._

He sat down next to her on the couch, awkward and uncertain, and despite the whole hellacious night she nearly laughed. Some men would’ve taken the invitation to stay the night in a completely different direction, but Marcus Kane perched like a statue at the edge of a couch cushion as solidly as if he’d been stitched in place.

“So…how are we going to do this?” he asked while running his fingers through his dark hair, adorably off-kilter. Her heart melted.

“I was thinking we’d stay here,” she said. “I haven’t tried sleeping on the couch before, and…”

“It might work,” he said with a nod. “It’s worth a try.”

Abby retrieved a blanket from a chest on the opposite side of the room, and Marcus shed his Peacekeeper jacket while she stripped down to her tank top and linen pants. They barely fit on the couch’s tiny surface area or under the blanket, finally managing to reach a suitable arrangement when Marcus leaned back against the pillows and Abby rested her head on his chest.

The sound of his heartbeat soothed her, relaxing every muscle in her tension-wracked body, and his beard tickled as she shifted her position to press a drowsy, warm kiss to his cheek.

“What was that?” he whispered, sounding as if he’d been half-asleep. Abby paused for a moment, exhaustion-addled brain whirring to formulate a decent response.

“Let’s call it hope.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) :D :) Comments or kudos if you see what I did there? ;) :D :)


	18. Rebellion

Warm sunlight filtered in through the dusty windows, stirring him from a deep slumber, and Marcus wondered when his dreams had become so vivid.

There was no conceivable way for this to be his his reality, for the universe to be kind enough to allow him to hold Abby like this. And yet, it was too sensory to be a figment of his imagination: the warmth of her breath on the side of his neck gave him goosebumps, and his skin tingled where her left hand rested on his chest. Checking to be sure she was still fast asleep, he let a small smile form.

Even if she only needed him to keep her dreams at bay, this was a memory he’d cherish forever. Seeing her like this – her hair loose as rays of sunlight caught the strands of red and blonde that highlighted the deep brown, her skin smooth and soft, completely relaxed against him – made his heart lurch with a longing he’d tried to dispel for months, for years, for decades.

She fit against him in a way Callie never had, in a way that made them two halves of a whole, two pieces that completed a puzzle. He couldn’t believe he’d even fallen asleep last night, given her presence next to him. How could he close his eyes when she was so close, so serene, so flawless?

Content to watch her sleep, he didn’t succumb to slumber again that morning. If there was a contest between the sunrise and her for sheer beauty, he wouldn’t have any trouble picking a winner.

About a half-hour later she stirred and yawned, and Marcus made every attempt to appear as though he’d just awoken as well. Still dazed from the night’s rest, she gave him a brief smile.

“Morning,” she whispered, nearly stopping his heart by snuggling closer to him, rolling over so she lay between his legs with her head on his chest.

“Morning,” he croaked in response, feeling blood start to rush to an area he wished he could stop from reacting to her. “Did you sleep well?”

Her smile widened, surpassing the sun in radiance. “No nightmares,” she said. A strand of hair fell into her eyes, and he reached up and brushed it behind her ear while she gazed down at him with a carefree grin. She caught his hand as it traveled back to his side, holding it underneath hers and atop his chest.

“How did you sleep?” she asked, lazily brushing her soft fingertips over his calloused knuckles.

“Better than I have in months,” he said. They smiled at each other for a few moments, and he found himself getting lost in her brown eyes: their warmth, their kindness, their strength. He wanted to build a home inside them and never leave, expand this innocently intimate moment to last a lifetime.

She gave a hum of contentment, blanket falling to the floor as she changed positions to be directly above him. “Then maybe we should do this more often.” She paused for a second, fixing him with a smirk that made his pants all the more uncomfortably tight. _Damn you, Abby._

 _“_ What do you think, Peacekeeper Kane?” she asked, voice lower than her usual tone, her lips mere inches from his as her hands slid up his chest to stroke the sides of his face. She knew what she was doing, she had to, but there was no way in hell he’d tell her to stop. “Is this part of your job?”

His vocal chords were too tight to manage anything other than a tiny squeak, so she leaned down, he closed his eyes and…

The doorbell rang.

Abby made a noise of indignation, rolling off of him, landing on the floor with a thud, shattering the moment before it began.

“Jackson’s here.”

“Oh,” Marcus said, making a valiant effort to conceal his disappointment. But in that desolation there was also a tiny thrill, an elation: she really almost kissed him. It almost happened. And most importantly, it had happened because she wanted it. Because she wanted _him_. With that knowledge, he’d be able to wait.

“Good morning, Abby,” he heard Jackson’s cheerful voice ringing through the entryway. “How are you today?”

“I’m just fine,” Abby said, tension evident in her tone. Slightly terrified and unable to avoid a run-in with her assistant, Marcus rose to his feet and started putting on his jacket.

“Well, that’s good,” Jackson said. “At least Clarke’s –“

The talking came to an abrupt halt, and Marcus knew Jackson had made his discovery.

“Um,” the young assistant started, clearly uncertain how to process the situation before him. Marcus turned around and saw both doctor and assistant red-faced and rigid, thrumming with embarrassment. “Good morning to you too, Peacekeeper Kane.”

“Good morning, Jackson,” Marcus stammered, equally mortified. They formed a triangle of awkward glances – Jackson to Abby, Abby to Marcus, Marcus back to Jackson – and none of them spoke for at least a full minute. For once, Marcus took it upon himself to break the silence.

“I’m leaving,” he said, more to put Jackson’s mind at ease than of any desire to part with Abby Griffin. For a heartbeat of a second she appeared crestfallen, but her expression was soon replaced with her normal tenacity. She accompanied him to the door, standing close as he pulled on and laced his boots.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized, her cheeks still tinged with crimson. “I don’t usually sleep that late.”

Not trusting himself to step any closer without pulling her into his arms and finishing what they started on the couch, he tied the laces on his right boot and turned toward the door with a smile.

“We can’t have you forgetting your patients, Doctor Griffin,” he said, gently teasing. She laughed, using a hair tie on her wrist to pull her hair back into its usual ponytail.

“Right.”

He said a goodbye that felt too formal after the morning’s events, and walked home with a grin on his face and fire in his veins.

* * *

Marcus unlocked the door to a sound he’d slowly grown accustomed to hearing: the phone ringing. Not bothering to take off his boots, he sprinted across the tile floor to answer it.

“Hello?” he said, out of breath.

“Well, hello,” David Miller said, sounding equal parts relieved and annoyed. “I’ve been trying to call you for the last two hours, Kane.”

“Sorry,” Marcus apologized. "I wasn't around."

Apparently being at Abby’s had sidelined his only other significant relationship. The last time they’d spoken had been after Clarke’s reaping, when David called to make sure Marcus was okay, but since then they hadn’t connected.

“Were you watching the Games last night?” David asked. “I’m surprised they’d go after Clarke like that, given her history. But I’m glad she’s all right. Wells seems like a good kid.”

“He is,” Marcus agreed, choosing not to disclose that he’d been watching the games with Abby Griffin. “But I’m sorry for your loss.”

Both of the tributes from Eleven had run for the Cornucopia as soon as the buzzer sounded, and hadn’t survived the aftermath.

“So am I,” he said. “Their families are good people. Some of the best workers in our district. They didn’t deserve this.”

“No one deserves it,” Marcus said instinctively, Abby’s words echoing in his ears. David didn’t talk for a few moments, apparently mulling over what Marcus had said.

“So, how are things in Twelve?” he asked, suddenly eager to change the subject. “Have they stopped giving you grief?”

 _Damn._ One of the only things Marcus hadn’t told David Miller: his relaxation of Capitol laws. Not because he didn’t trust David to keep the information secret, but because it wasn’t a topic that had come up in conversation. Miller had his own problems in Eleven, and Marcus was all too willing to help him rather than to delve into his own saga of issues.

“Everything’s fine here,” Marcus said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as tense as he thought. "Mostly."

“How are you and Abby?” he asked, taking a gentler tone. Marcus sighed.

“You're still arguing, then?” David assumed, and Marcus shook his head although he knew Miller wouldn’t be able to see him. Things were great – _excellent_ , actually – but that wasn’t information he’d disclose to another Peacekeeper, another man bound by the same laws as him.

“It’s not that we’re arguing all the time,” he began, beginning to twirl the phone cord to give his anxious mind something to do. “We’re not, really. She has other things to worry about. It’s just…”

“She disagrees with you?” David tried to finish his sentence for him, inaccurately.

“No, I said it’s not that.”

“Well, you’re not giving me much to go off of, Kane.”

Marcus almost laughed. What was he supposed to say? _Everything’s great with Abby and I. We slept together and almost kissed this morning and somehow, through some God-given miracle, she feels the same way about me as I do about her._

There was a clear distinction between what he should say, what the Capitol would order him to say, and how he felt. But which version could he give Miller? Which truth could he entrust to the man he’d trained with, the man who’d gone out of his way to show how much he cared?

“There’s not much to talk about,” Marcus said, desperate for a change of subject. “I guess we’re friends.”

David coughed, a harsh, explosive sound.

“You’re telling me you’re friends with her now, but there’s nothing to talk about?” he asked, incredulous. “Kane, the last time we talked about her you told me about the whipping. That was it.”

The cord smacked the light blue wallpaper, making a sound that resembled the cracking of a whip, and Marcus dropped it as though it burned him.

“Well, a _few_ things have changed,” he said, still reluctant to give details. Peacekeepers weren’t supposed to form bonds with civilians – Marcus learned that David had to inform the Capitol when he’d begun seeing his wife, and he had to apply for consideration to be allowed to marry her – and if they were caught in an undisclosed romantic relationship, the consequences could be severe for both parties involved. The Capitol would only allow government officials and Peacekeepers to be involved with certain citizens, for the sake of maintaining a "proper" public image. 

Unexpectedly, his thoughts drifted to Callie. _Why didn’t I care back then? What’s different now?_ He’d let himself spend the night with Abby because it could be justified if need be – he’d tell Pike that she was important to the district, that he couldn’t let her go unmonitored in that emotional situation for fear of another breach in the law – and since Jackson was the only one to glimpse them this morning, there wouldn’t be a reason to worry. But if they entered a relationship, if he let himself cave in under the weight of his feelings for her…

He never should’ve spent the night. He never should’ve woken up with her this morning, and he definitely shouldn’t have almost kissed her. Daydreaming about her and helping her deliver medicine was one thing, but this…this was something else entirely. This was a new line drawn, one he couldn’t erase if he wanted to.

_What the hell was I thinking?_

“Clearly,” David scoffed, good-naturedly oblivious to his friend’s turmoil. “Last I checked, people don’t usually go from ‘tied to a whipping post’ to ‘friends’ overnight. But I don’t live in Twelve, so what do I know?”

“It wasn’t overnight,” Marcus said. “Trust me.”

“Well, _something_ happened,” David said. “But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. Just answer one thing for me, Kane.”

“What?” Marcus said. His friend’s voice had taken on a sudden solemn air, as if his question held weight beyond the answer.

“Are you in love with her?”

“Does it matter?” Marcus asked, fighting to keep his voice level despite his growing annoyance with himself and his friend. “That’s a personal question.”

“I’m just telling you to be careful,” David said. “Pike won’t care that you’re in Twelve if you start breaking rules, and he won’t care that she’s a victor’s wife or their only doctor. I know how much it hurt you to see her on the post the first time, and that wasn’t your fault. Next time, it might be.”

“What are you saying?” Marcus stammered. His mouth moved before his brain fired, but he knew quite well what David was saying. 

“Sarah and I did things the right way,” David said. “I didn’t try to hide anything from them. But if Pike thinks you’re going behind his back, he could make life hell for you. And her, too.”

“Nothing’s happened between us,” Marcus said, stomach sinking as his lips formed the lie. “She hugged me once. I went over to her house to watch the Games, because we’re friends. But nothing’s happened. Nothing’s going to happen.”

The memory of her pressed flush against him, teasing him, the carefree light in her eyes…to be forced to give that up now, after the fraction of heaven he’d experienced…his eyes burned with tears. But if something got back to Pike, if someone other than Octavia witnessed an embrace in the woods or something more…he leaned against the wall, suddenly off-balance. Would Pike really punish Abby without concrete proof? Without an investigation?

He already knew the answer to that question.

David sounded relieved, although Marcus’ heart was sinking in quicksand.

“Good,” he said. “I know how Pike is about relationships. You had me worried, that’s all.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to worry you,” Marcus said, faking a laugh. “You have enough going on in your district as it is.”

“That’s the truth,” David said. “Anyway, tell Abby I’m rooting for Clarke. She’s got a good chance, and I mean that.”

“I’ll let her know,” Marcus said, trying to fill the hollowness in his voice. Under the excuse of needing rest, he asked David if they could continue their conversation tomorrow. He agreed, and they said their goodbyes and hung up.

Marcus put his head in his hands.

The relationship rule was often ignored – _usually_ ignored – by officers who weren’t closely monitored by Charles Pike. By officers who didn’t have good relationships with their district’s mayor. By officers who were looking for one night of pleasure, rather than a true connection. Marcus knew he didn’t fall into any of those categories, and his stomach lurched at the realization.

But could he be overreacting? Romantic relationships were heavily restricted, as were unnecessary, non-law related interactions with citizens. That one had been reduced to smithereens from the moment he started distributing his rations to children on the street. But how could Pike prove that? He wasn’t likely to trace the whereabouts of Capitol foods when he was more worried about a full-scale rebellion breaking out. And Cray had gotten away with more, for a much longer period of time.

Abby was another story.

Abby had already broken laws, and Pike was probably expecting Marcus to be watching her. Either way, anything besides friendship would be impossible for them – the Capitol would never approve a relationship between them given her transgressions, and he couldn’t leave the force. After breaking the law once, he didn’t know if Pike would give her a second chance. Telling her wasn’t an option, simply because she wouldn’t care. The law meant next to nothing to her, but he wouldn’t let her suffer for his wrongdoings. For the laws he ignored.

So Marcus Kane took a deep breath, heart in his throat, and prepared to make a phone call that every part of him dreaded.

The phone rang once, twice, three times, and he wondered if perhaps she wouldn’t answer. He almost wished she wouldn’t, so he could live in last night a little while longer before Pike’s laws evicted him.

_I have to keep you safe. Even if it means staying away._

“Hello?” a cheery voice answered, and Marcus bit the inside of his cheek to counteract his roiling emotions.

“Abby,” he said, trying to maintain the decorum of which David had reminded him. “I don’t think I should come over to watch the Games with you tonight, and I don’t think I should stay with you.”

The confusion in her words seared him.

“Why?” she asked. “If this is about Jackson, he understands. And Raven’s not going to electrocute you.”

“It isn’t about Jackson or Raven,” he said, more harshly than he meant to.

Despite her exhaustion, Abby seemed to pick up on his tone.“Oh,” she said, matching his detachedness. “Well, what is it, then?”

“I…” he started, rubbing his hand over his face. There was no good way to have this conversation, especially with his vision blurring and every cell in his body shrieking for him not to say the next sentence. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be seeing you as often as I have, Abby. For us to be…the way we were this morning. I wasn’t thinking, and I’m sorry.”

_I have to keep you safe. I won’t let anything happen to you._

Five seconds.

Quiet.

Ten seconds.

Quiet.

Then, after fifteen seconds of the most uncomfortable silence Marcus Kane had ever endured, she finally spoke.

“I see,” she said, her tone frosty. “You’re a Peacekeeper. Of course.”

Marcus rested his forehead against the wall, wracked with shame. If there was a God, he hoped he’d incinerate him with a lighting bolt rather than allowing him to continue.

“I can still make sure you’re all right from time to time,” he said. “But…what happened this morning, I can’t-“

“I said I understand, Kane!” she hissed, and he nearly dropped the phone.

_Kane. Back to Kane again._

The one thing he hadn’t thought about, in his mess of jumbled considerations, was how much it would sting to hear his surname from her lips again. It drew forth a host of emotions he’d forgotten about: anger, revulsion, and a wave of self-hatred. To have been _Marcus_ , to have held her and been so close to her only to regress back to being Kane…it was enough to make him vomit.

“Well if you really understood, _Doctor Griffin_ , we wouldn’t be having this conversation!” he yelled, rage washing over him before he could give it a chance to cool. “If you really understood, you wouldn’t have begged me to stay with you last night!”

Too far. He’d gone too far, and he knew it. But he couldn’t reach into the open air and snatch the words before they reached her: he could only recoil and wait for the aftermath that was undoubtedly coming.

“ _Really_ ,” she said, and he could picture the angry glint in her eyes although she was far away. The sparkling rage he’d convinced himself he’d never see again, despite the guilt that always stirred in the back of his chest. “Is that what you thought I was doing? Begging you to stay?”

“Abby, I-“ he began an apology, but he couldn’t patch the damage he’d done with his flimsy, feeble words. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snarled. This was the angriest he’d heard her – the funeral included – and although she was nowhere near him, he took an involuntary step back. Abby Griffin, when angry, was every bit as intimidating as President Snow himself. “There’s only one man whose arms I’d _throw myself into_ , and you’re not him.”

She hung up without saying goodbye, leaving him with a phone in his hand, a weight in his heart, and a host of words he’d never be able to say to her.

* * *

The tears were falling before she hung up the phone, but Abby made sure they were silent. She slammed the phone onto the receiver with as much force as her tired muscles could muster, then sunk to the floor with her head in her hands.

_Throwing yourself into my arms and begging me to stay._

Despicable.

How stupid, she thought, to let herself think he’d changed. To think Marcus Kane, the man who ignored she and her husband for 28 years, would be the one to offer her comfort when she needed it most. He hadn’t been there before, and she’d been an idiot to think he’d be here now.

But everything he’d said, everything he’d done for her…taking the medicine, making sure she was okay after the whipping, going with her into the woods and telling her Clarke would be all right, staying the night with her…had it all been a lie? A careful, well-constructed lie to gain her trust?

What would he gain from that? What would he gain from spending time with her daughter, taking hours out of his day to recount old stories about Jake? This constant argument was between the two of them, as it had always been. The least he could’ve done was leave Clarke out of it.

After the workday ended, and Jackson went home, Abby Griffin decided she needed two things: answers, and a drink. One of them she didn’t need now, and one knew where to find.

Standing slowly and stumbling over to her scratched wooden cabinets, Abby pulled out an old glass and slammed it down on the granite countertop with enough force to crack the base. Raven’s bottle of liquor was next, and she snatched it from its perch on the bottom of her pantry with angered ease. The liquid didn’t pour well – it sloshed over the counter and made an acrid-smelling mess – but enough of it landed in the jar that Abby felt justified in raising it to her lips. She downed it all in one gulp, savoring the fiery burn as it surged down her throat.

 _To you, Marcus Kane,_ she thought bitterly. _You asshole._

And what had she been thinking, asking him to stay? The kiss she’d almost given him haunted her now, but not with the fiery desire it held before. It wasn’t a promise of things to come: it was a symbol of what would never be. Of her own idiocy.

If he’d always known he’d be leaving, he never should’ve come in the first place.

She abandoned the glass soon enough, opting to drink from the bottle instead. Eventually, she told herself, she’d take the time to think about this. To ponder it from its shaky beginning to its crash-and-burn ending and figure out what the hell had gone wrong.

But for now, with the Games in a few hours and Marcus Kane invading her every thought, she just needed to forget it.

* * *

“Abby?”

Someone was shaking her shoulder. Annoyed, she shrugged them off, which only increased the shaking.

“Abby, if you don’t wake up in the next ten seconds I’m calling Jackson.”

_Raven._

“I’m fine,” she slurred, realizing two things at the same time: one, she’d taken a veritable bath in moonshine. The liquid soaked her hair, her clothes, and her skin. She smelled disgusting, and her nose wrinkled as her headache began.

Two, the last person she wanted to talk to about this was Raven Reyes. Her chorus of “I told you so!” would echo through the district.

“Are you okay?” the young mechanic asked, and the true depth of caring in her voice brought tears to Abby’s eyes. She sounded so, so much like Clarke. Exhausted, hungover and utterly heartbroken, she shook her head.

“Hey,” Raven said. “If it makes you feel any better, Clarke’s back to normal today. Wells was able to nurse her back to health, thanks to some weird tea the sponsors sent her.”

 _I slept through the broadcast?_ A surge of shame coursed through her – not only had she let Marcus ruin her day, but he ruined any possibility of watching her daughter’s health improve. 

Raven walked away for a moment and returned with a glass of water.

“Drink up,” she said. “Unless you’d rather be hungover for the next two days. God, Abby, how much of that stuff did you drink?”

 _Too damn much,_ she thought. Every muscle in her body screamed as she raised the glass to her lips, but the water soothed her dry mouth and aching throat.

“Clarke and Wells are okay?” Abby asked as Raven sat down across from her at the wooden table. The girl nodded.

“As far as I know,” she said. “I left right before the broadcast ended, but they only show Careers at the end. They’re fine.”

Abby sighed, resting her head in her hands and giving a barely-audible groan. Apparently she’d passed out after a half-hour of nearly nonstop drinking, compliments of Marcus Kane. Her stomach churned, and she mapped the course to the nearest bathroom. She’d achieved her goal, at least partially: she was too sick to think straight, so thinking about him wasn’t an option.

“How did you get in here?” Abby asked over the pounding in her head. “And why?”

“You freaked me out,” Raven said. “You weren’t over at Jackson’s, or my house, or Kane’s-“

“You called him?” Abby didn’t regret Raven’s profession often – in fact, she was quite helpful most of the time – but her prowess with machinery allowed her to build a phone out of scrap metal around the district. A scrap metal phone that, apparently, she’d used to contact the one person Abby despised most at the moment.

“Yeah, but he was pissy as usual,” Raven muttered. “He pretty much just told me you weren’t there and hung up. I don’t know what you see in him. I get it, he cares about Clarke and he cares about you, too, but-“

Abby let out another groan, this one loud enough for Raven to hear.

“What?” she asked, and Abby swallowed hard. Her memories of the morning were still fresh despite the alcohol; she could still feel his warmth as she curled up against him, she could see his radiant, soothing smile.

“Kane doesn’t care about either of us,” she said. “He made that _very_ clear today.”

Raven’s jaw dropped.

“What a dick,” she said, clenching her fists. “I know you said I wasn’t supposed to do anything, but if he has an accident in the next few days…”

“Raven-“ Abby sighed. 

“All I’m saying is if a tree randomly falls on his house or something-“

“ _Raven_ ,” Abby said. It was meant to be authoritative, commanding, but her voice broke and she slammed her lips shut instantly.

Her young companion stopped talking and looked her in the eyes, reaching across the table to take her hand.

“Okay. No accidents,” Raven promised. “But seriously, Abby, I’m sorry. I could tell how much you liked him. And once you talked to me, I almost thought I could like him, too. Get over what happened.”

“It’s okay,” Abby reassured her while her heart broke. “But you were right about him, Raven. I should’ve listened to you.”

Raven let go of her hand, her heartwarming smile shrinking to a smirk Abby knew all too well.

“Yeah, I’m usually right,” she said.

They talked for a little while longer, Raven recounting the events of the Games Abby missed. But the girl began yawning after every sentence that she spoke, and eventually Abby insisted she go home and rest. Working in the mines might have been what Raven was destined to do, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t exhausting.

And after a warm hug from her daughter’s closest friend and a goodbye wave, Abby Griffin found herself alone yet again. Alone, that was, until the phone rang.

There were only two people who had her number – Thelonious and Marcus. Thelonious only called if there was an emergency, and Abby was pretty sure nothing dire had happened while she’d fallen unconscious.

So that dwindled the list to one.

Less than a day, and he was already calling her. What would he say to her now, that he found a way around the law? He was sorry for what he said? If he truly cared, he wouldn’t have put the Capitol’s restrictions above her. But that was the way Marcus Kane had always been: work before family, before friends. Seething, she picked up the phone and tried to keep her voice even.

“Kane, if you think you can just call me and expect to-“

“Abby, it’s Becca.”

_Becca?_

It had been over a year since they’d last spoken – not since Jake’s funeral. Becca and Jake had met in the Capitol after she won the Games, and gotten along extremely well from the start. Abby always found her a bit strong: a little too bold, too zealous, and at times, unrealistic. But Jake and Becca agreed on most things, because at their core they shared the same hatred for the Capitol and the drive to change Panem for the better.

After his passing she’d gone off the grid for months, leaving her home district for the opportunity to join a rebellion Abby wasn’t sure existed. Becca had been convinced for years that something existed in District 13, an uprising waiting for the correct moment to strike back at the government they despised. Given the silence, Abby assumed she either found it, or the Capitol found her.

“Becca?” she stammered, thankful the water had at least lessened her hangover. “Where are you? I’m so happy you’re okay.”

“I’m here,” Becca said, and Abby didn’t think she imagined the swell of pride in the woman’s voice. “I found it, Abby. What I was looking for.”

 _Thirteen._ She wouldn't say it over the phone, but Abby knew.

“That’s…great,” Abby said, not knowing what else to say. Had Becca just called her to talk about rebellion? Was there a purpose for this call? Because if not, there were other things she’d rather be doing. 

“And I need to talk to you,” she said. “About Clarke.”

Abby frowned. “What about Clarke?”

“Did you watch the broadcast tonight?” 

“No,” Abby admitted, embarrassed. She opened her mouth to make some excuse – she slept through it, she was too busy helping patients, she was out in the woods collecting herbs – but Becca talked over her.

“She drew Jake, Abby,” Becca said. “They sent her art supplies, and she made a sketch of him. She knows.”

Raven missed more of the broadcast than she'd thought...apparently, the end wasn't just for Careers anymore.

_Knows? What does she know?_

“Becca, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t know?” Becca asked, incredulous.

“No,” Abby said, using all her willpower to not hang up the phone then and there and move on with her life. She had bigger things to worry about than Becca’s conspiracy theories.

“The train crash wasn’t an accident,” Becca said, and just like that the world ceased to spin for Abigail Griffin. “Jake had been involved with us for years before it happened, but he was good at keeping it quiet. The Capitol found out a year and a half ago, and…” Becca trailed off, letting Abby finish the sentence for herself.

 _Jake? Rebellion?_ It didn’t make sense. How would he have been able to keep such a secret from her for so long? Why wouldn’t he have told her about his involvement?

That she could answer for herself: he wanted to keep her and Clarke safe. And the less they knew, the less the Capitol could come after them for. But why, why, _why_ wouldn’t he have told her? They could’ve joined the rebellion together, fought for their people together. Instead he chose to walk his path alone, leaving her and Clarke behind.

“Abby?” Becca said. “Are you there?”

“I…” Abby stammered, feeling that familiar stomach flip all over again. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Becca sighed, displaying all the self-assuredness Abby remembered. “Do you need proof?”

“You’re calling my husband, the man I was married to for over twenty years, a rebel. You’re telling me his death wasn’t an accident, but an assassination. Do you think I _don’t_ need proof?”

Becca was quiet for a moment, and Abby heard the shuffling of papers on the other end. Clearly, she assumed Abby wouldn’t be willing to believe so easily.

“During the time you were married, Jake made exactly forty trips to the Capitol without you and Clarke. Or so he said. Only thirty-five of them ended with him in the city, Abby. The rest of those excursions had him ending up here.”

The chain around her neck felt as though it were shrinking.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Becca,” Abby snapped. “How do I know you’re not picking random numbers to prove a point?”

“When Jake’s train crashed,” Becca started, and Abby winced. Scenes from her nightmares flashed before her like lightning. Jake kissing her before he left. Jake telling her everything was going to be okay. The bridge that had collapsed beneath his train, taking him and forty other passengers with it. The smooth, unaffected voice of the newscaster, observing how odd it was for Capitol-constructed bridges to fail so horribly. Watching the same footage over and over and over again, willing it to have a different ending each time.

Bridges did fail, Abby noted as her eyes started to burn with tears. They failed if they were brought down.

“When the bridge collapsed, it collapsed at the thickest part of the structure and crumbled downward, not the other way around,” Becca continued. “Everyone thought the malfunction was strange. But it _wasn’t_ a malfunction, Abby. What more do I have to say to prove that to you?”

Covering her trembling lips with her equally shaky hand, Abby closed her eyes and willed the room to stop spinning. _If he kept this from me, what else could he have hidden? Did I ever know him at all?_

And somehow equally terrifying: how much of this had Marcus known? Had he known about Jake’s role in the rebellion? Had he known about the crash that wasn’t a crash at all?

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” Becca said. “But Abby, we need to talk about your daughter.”

“What about her?” Abby asked numbly. Her lips were moving, but she felt as though no sound came out. All her energy had been drained in the strength of that revelation, and she slumped against the counter, boneless.

“Someone must have told her,” Becca said. “For her to draw her dad above you, her friends, or anyone else-“

“She loves him!” Abby nearly screamed. “Did you consider that she decided to draw her father _because_ he’s her father? That she might _not_ have an ulterior motive? For God’s sake, she’s only eighteen!”

“That's not how the districts will see it,” Becca said, infuriatingly calm despite Abby’s outburst. “Most of them questioned the circumstances surrounding his death, and this’ll be seen as an act of defiance. A daughter sentenced to the arena, drawing the father the Capitol took from her. It’s a beautiful story, and it'll motivate people.”

“So you’re saying they’ll come after her?” Abby asked as the room began to blur around her. “That if she makes it out of this, if she wins, she’ll be a target?”

“No one wins the Games, Abby,” Becca said, and Abby’s heart nearly gave out. _That’s what Jake always used to say._

“Tell me what you’re going to tell me,” Abby glowered, overwhelmed and half-collapsed onto the linoleum floor of her kitchen. “Or hang up.”

“I’m asking if you’re in. You and her. Her story, her perseverance, her love for Jake…she’ll inspire the districts to do what’s right. We couldn’t have asked for a better diamond in the coal if she makes it out of the arena, and we’d be able to keep her safe.”

“She’s not your diamond,” Abby snarled. “That should be her decision to make.”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” Becca said, and the earnestness in her tone caught Abby off-guard. “She loves you. Clarke won’t join unless you do. So, my question is, will you join the rebellion?”

For a brief flicker of a moment, Abby wondered what forces of the universe despised her so wholeheartedly that she’d not only need to answer this question, but answer it half-hungover and angry at nearly everyone she loved.

“Do I have to answer now?” Abby asked. “I don’t…this is a lot all at once. When you called, I wasn’t expecting this.”

Becca laughed, a soft, light sound.

“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, Abby,” she said. “But we all know you’re no friend to the Capitol. With the amount of laws you’ve broken, I wouldn’t be surprised to find you on one of their surveillance lists. Good thing this call is secure.”

 _What would Jake do? What would Jake want me to do?_ The most frightening of questions surfaced after those: _if Clarke wins, is she doomed anyway?_ But Becca had said it herself – District 13 and the rebels would take care of her. For some reason Abby couldn’t understand, her daughter was a treasure to them. The gift they needed. An inspiration, a muse. To her, Clarke was only one thing: her daughter.

It was time, she decided, to stop asking herself what Jake would have done. Jake didn’t know Clarke would be reaped during her last year of eligibility. Jake didn’t know Becca would call her at one in the morning and beg her to join the rebellion. Jake didn’t know she’d be whipped for saving Raven’s life, and Jake certainly didn’t know the complicated saga that had unfolded between her and Marcus Kane.

It was time to start asking herself what _she_ should do.

“Can you promise you’ll keep her safe?” Abby asked, wrapping the phone cord around her hand as she fought to make a choice.

“Yes,” Becca said, and Abby could hear the sincerity in her voice even through the phone. “If she makes it out of the Games, she’s our first priority.”

Abby thought for a few moments, swallowed the bile rising like magma in her throat, and spoke.

“Count me in.”

* * *

“Come in,” Thelonious Jaha ordered from the opposite side of the tall oak door, and Marcus Kane entered his office.

They'd scheduled a meeting – routine maintenance, checking in to be sure neither of them had pressing concerns. With the general content in the district he and Thelonioius met once a month now, and more often than not all was well. But all would not be well today, Marcus knew. Last night Wells had died in the Games, taking a spear meant for Clarke. Clarke had given him a sort of funeral in the midst of it all, placing wildflowers around him in a spectacular, heart-wrenching show, and it was clear from her expression on his screen that she blamed herself for the tragic outcome. His heart broke for her – no child should have to lose their best friend, and especially not like that.

After the broadcast Marcus called the mayor, insisting that they cancel the meeting and reschedule for a later time. Thelonious denied his request, and Marcus ended up at City Hall bright and early on Monday morning. Thelonious' office was sparse, containing little more than his desk and pictures of his wife and son. Two flags mirrored each other in the corners of the room behind him: the flag of Panem and the flag of District 12. But the walls were white, the carpet was a greyish-green, and for somer reason Marcus always found the place slightly unsettling.

“Take a seat, Peacekeeper Kane,” Thelonious ordered, gesturing to a velvet-upholstered chair in front of his desk. The chair sat slightly lower than the mayor’s desk, and Marcus found he had to look up at Thelonious when he talked to him. Each time he went to a meeting, he wondered if there would be a new chair that put them on equal ground. And each time he entered the office, the same chair waited for him.

“Thelonious, I’m so sorry,” Marcus said, glancing up at him. His shoulders were squared but his eyes were red, and Marcus wondered if he’d been drinking. Pity wasn’t an emotion he usually associated with Mayor Jaha: after all, he had the best accommodations in the District and was well-respected by the majority of his citizens (save Abby, when she wanted something). But now he’d return home after the workday to an empty house and wait for his son’s funeral.

“There can only be one winner,” Thelonious said, his voice empty. “Those are the rules of the Games.”

Marcus nodded, Thelonious nodded, and neither of them spoke for a long while.

“That isn’t why we’re having this meeting, Kane,” Thelonious said, and Marcus stiffened in his chair. His tone had suddenly become authoritative, commanding in a way he hadn’t heard from him before. Vaguely, he wished they’d postponed the meeting.

“You’ll be pleased to note, sir, that there have been no significant reports of rebellion or crime in the past month,” Marcus said. “It’s been peaceful, all things considered.”

“Clearly, given the amount of time you spent with Abby Griffin,” Thelonious observed.

Marcus clenched his jaw.

“What does Abby have to do with any of this?” he asked, trying to maintain his composure while his pulse escalated. It had been nearly a week since they’d spoken, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the pain in her eyes as their gazes connected across 12’s streets. The problem wasn’t that she didn’t understand his limitations – it was more likely she didn’t understand why he’d let her in in the first place. Sometimes, Marcus didn’t have that answer himself.

“Don’t play the fool,” Thelonious said with a heartless smile. “I may spend most of my time in this office, but I don’t live here. I saw you leaving her house early in the morning last week.”

“That wasn’t what it looked like,” Marcus retorted, gritting his teeth against the flash of pain the memory caused.

How happy he’d been when he walked out that door.

How quickly things had gone badly after that.

“As a Peacekeeper, you’re not supposed to entangle yourself in the private lives of citizens,” Thelonious said. “You’re supposed to observe and maintain order. I thought you were the ideal candidate, Marcus. When you arrived, you had a strength not weakened by sentiment.”

Marcus recoiled at the unsavory image of himself when he first arrived in Twelve: heartless, soulless, cruel. He’d seen the poverty and the despair, but done nothing about it. According to the Capitol, his _job_ was to do nothing about it.

“But as time went on, I noticed you relaxed several Capitol-mandated regulations,” the mayor continued. “Starting with de-electrifying the fences. I let that go, because I understood how much Abby needed to go into the woods for her medicines. I believed that was the only change you’d make, given your devotion to the law.

“But then you allowed the Hob to operate again, and relaxed curfew. Those were changes I was less comfortable with, but the Games were beginning and my attention was elsewhere. So, until now, I didn’t want to talk to you about it. But now I think we need to talk, Kane.”

Marcus floundered for words for a moment, taken aback by the forwardness of the mayor’s statements. They weren’t lies – he had spent lots of time with Abby, he had de-electrified the fences and allowed the Hob to operate and relaxed curfew – but Marcus had come to see those changes more necessary than the laws that forbade them. Without the Hob and its trading market, life in Twelve came to a grinding halt for the families who needed its benefits most. With a relaxed curfew, children could play outside longer and families could spend more time with friends. And with the fences de-electrified, almost everyone was able to get the care they needed.

The only self-serving thing on Thelonious’ list of grievances was the amount of time he spent with Abby, and Marcus couldn’t argue that. He had been extremely selfish, unguarded, unprofessional. From the moment she held him in the woods, he should have told her he could only ever be her friend. Less than that, really, because of the laws she’d broken. The Capitol wouldn’t have wished him to associate with her in the slightest.

And instead of maintaining his decorum and keeping her at arm’s length, he started spending time with and growing to care for Clarke, delivered medicines for her, watched the Games with her, and…the rest was too painful to think about. Her smile and laugh plagued his nightmares, along with the kiss she’d almost given him. The kiss that shouldn’t have been a kiss at all.

_“What do you think, Peackeeper Kane? Is this part of your job?”_

It wasn’t part of his job, and he should’ve told her weeks earlier.

“I agree we need to discuss things, sir,” Marcus said, readying himself for whatever came next. “If you were uncomfortable with the changes I implemented, I wish you would’ve talked to me sooner.”

“You’ve placed me in a delicate position, Marcus,” Thelonious said. “And I’m not sure what to do about it.”

“How so, sir?” Marcus asked.

“On one hand, you’re popular with the people in a way that Cray never was. You understand them. You’ve bonded with them. I see you handing your rations to children on the street, and through such acts of kindness you’ve earned their trust.”

He allowed himself a small smile. While he hadn’t been eating as well as the Capitol would’ve advised him lately, he was proud that the food went to those who needed it. And since the phone call with Abby, he hadn’t had much of an appetite.

“So what’s the problem, sir?”

“The problem is that before our meeting today, I spoke with Head Peacekeeper Pike,” Thelonious said, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. “And I wasn’t able to give him a glowing report.”

Marcus stared up at him from his velvet chair, suddenly sick to his stomach. If Pike decided he wasn’t fit to remain in Twelve, he’d either be demoted or turned into an Avox. Dismissal from the Peackeeper force wasn’t an option – they had access to too many of the Capitol’s sensitive information.

“And what did Pike say?” he asked.

“He said I’m allowed to give you a choice, Kane,” Thelonious said. Not for the first time, Marcus wondered how someone as kind and gentle as Wells had come from someone as cold, pragmatic, and ruthless as District 12’s mayor. “You can either reinstate all the laws you relaxed in your attempt to bond with my citizens, or you can leave for the Capitol.”

No hint of what he’d be doing in the Capitol – not a good sign. But could he stay here, after everything? After Abby? Heartbroken, he realized he hadn’t kept his promise to Clarke. He wasn’t taking care of her mother, and he certainly hadn’t been there for her. 

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Thelonious continued. “Pike gave you until the end of the month, which is-“ he paused to glance at the yellowed calendar on his wall – “in a little over a week. I trust you’ll be able to make a decision by then.”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said with a sinking heart. 

Leaving the room with a lump in his throat, he thought he might deserve whatever the Capitol had in store for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :O From here, there's going to be a *lot* happening. Hope you enjoyed!


	19. Bleeding Out

When Marcus arrived at home, he noticed something that slipped his mind in the past few days: he still had Jake’s book, _Great Expectations_. He’d thought he’d give it to Abby one night after the broadcasts – he’d trade for some wrapping paper at the Hob and present it to her like a gift – but considering she couldn’t stand to be around him, he doubted he’d be able to give it to her.

Heartsick and rapidly losing hope, Thelonious' ultimatum perching on his shoulders and weighing him down, he picked up the book and began to read.

_My father's family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip._

He smiled, remembering how he’d struggled his own name as a child. The hours flew by quickly after that, as Marcus turned page after page and lost himself in the struggles of Philip Pirrip and his desire to make something of himself: to be worthy of Estella’s love. If he thought about it, he could see much of himself in that main character. A poor boy unhappy with his life, desperate to improve himself, fallen hopelessly in love with a girl who was destined not to return his affections. Abby was nothing like Estella, of course. But the parallels between he and Pip began to unsettle him, and he set the book down before he could finish it.

The Games were less than eventful that evening, at least for anyone with an emotional investment in District 12's Clarke Griffin. She’d gone back to living in the cave she shared with Wells, foraging for food during the daylight hours and taking cover at night. It didn’t escape his notice that the number of tributes had dwindled to three: Clarke, a girl from Four, and Ontari. Eventually, Clarke would have to fight...or the fight would be brought to her.

Fixated on that troubling thought, a knock at his door came as a welcome distraction. Or at least it did for the few seconds until he pulled back the barrier, revealing who stood on the opposite side.

“Bellamy?” Marcus said, shocked the boy knew where he lived - the Peacekeeper's home had some amount of notoriety, but he had always doubted the Blake kids cared much for titles or the people to whom they belonged. Marcus had visited him and Octavia a few times, bringing them food as well as offering them shelter. Winter would arrive sooner rather than later, and he couldn't stand the thought of the pair huddled over whatever meager fire they managed to light in the Kane's old, collapsing fireplace. Bellamy always refused whatever aid he extended and insisted they'd be fine when winter came, but Marcus continually left food on the siblings' front doorstep for them to discover and fresh firewood for them to stockpile.

It took Marcus a few seconds to summit his surprise at seeing him on his front porch, to look past his presence to his _expression_. Bellamy appeared distressed, distraught, his brown eyes wild, his shoulders shaking. With a glance at what he held in his arms, Marcus understood why.

“Octavia?” he asked, eyes widening in alarm. She looked like a rag doll in her brother’s arms: small, pale, and utterly limp. The jacket she usually wore was gone, exposing a torn shirt wet with blood. Bellamy nodded, his voice tight, crimson leaking through his trembling fingers.

“She needs help,” he said in a rush, his voice breaking on the last word.

“How did this happen?” Marcus asked, his heart hammering. _Not Octavia._ Not Octavia, the girl who protected his mother’s tree and shared the spoils of her hunt with the other orphans in Twelve. 

“We were in the woods. She was hunting a mountain lion, but it heard her coming,” Bellamy said. “It jumped on her, and I was too far away to do anything about it.”

The regret in his voice was raw, sharp, flooded with a self-hatred that Marcus understood all too well. And he hated himself for it as his thoughts drifted to someone else, to another woman who regularly disregarded the chipped, faded signs that forbade citizens from exiting the district. What if...if she had...would he even know? Who would tell him? Everyone close to her had been repulsed by him, enraged by his treatment of her, busy with their hatred of him and continuing to stitch her heart back together during the day before the broadcasts tore it again at night.

He didn't deserve to be by her side, but that didn't mean he didn't worry. 

“You know Abby Griffin,” Bellamy continued. “And if she can save her…”

Marcus swallowed hard, knowing fully well what had to be done - what was unavoidable, now. There was no risk he wouldn't take for them, not when looking at Bellamy often felt like looking in a mirror and watching Octavia tend to his mother's little tree lit up even the darkest corners of his heart. He knew Abby wouldn’t turn the boy away, whether or not he accompanied them.  Bellamy's past with Clarke was a mystery, true, but it hardly seemed possible that it was hideous enough to merit her refusing aid for a child.

It certainly wouldn't be _comfortable_ for Marcus to show up on her front doorstep with a pair of orphans in tow. And yet he had to try, even if the night ended with a door slamming in his face. For Octavia’s sake.

“Come on,” Marcus said, stepping out into the brisk night air and locking the door behind him. “Do you need me to take her?” he asked, glancing down at Octavia. Bellamy hesitated, and Marcus understood why. It was a long walk from his old house to his new home as Peackeeper, and it was evident Bellamy had been carrying his sister the whole time: he'd been running, too. He was strong, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t suffering. For such a small girl, she had to be at least sixty percent muscle. 

“It’s okay,” Marcus reassured him as they moved quickly through the starlit streets, both breathing heavily. They stopped jogging for a moment, and Bellamy transferred his sister into Marcus’ arms. It was jarring, he thought, to see a child as lively and headstrong as Octavia Blake so ill. It was clear she’d lost a lot of blood - the result of the possibly mortal injury - and her face was as white as snow. A tiny groan emerged from her cracked lips, and his heart sank. She was a warrior, a fighter, but this was a battle she couldn't win on her own.  _I hope you can help her, Abby._

"Abby can help her," Bellamy said, his voice soft. "Right?" 

Marcus held Octavia tighter, contemplated saying a prayer although he'd long ago shelved his Bibles and Scripture. Whether God chose to help them or not, Octavia Blake's life would soon be in Abby Griffin's hands. Whether or not she was able to repair what the mountain lion had broken...he didn't know, but he wouldn't transfer that uncertainty to Bellamy.

"She's the best doctor I know," Marcus said, and it wasn't what the boy wanted to hear, but it wasn't a lie. 

They arrived at Abby’s home after nearly ten minutes of running, and with a nod from Marcus Bellamy began pounding on the door.

“Doctor Griffin!” he yelled. “Doctor Griffin, we need your help!”

So concerned was he for Octavia, Marcus barely registered the pit of dread in his stomach at seeing Abby again. The girl in his arms was his first priority at the moment: everything between he and the district’s only doctor could be discussed later, if she felt like discussing it at all.

The door opened, and bathed in the yellow light of her home, there she was.

Now was not the time to get caught in her beauty, to stare at her with a racing heart and a lead tongue. Octavia Blake was injured in his arms, and dwelling on his bitter past with Abby Griffin would only worsen her situation. Logically, Marcus knew he should look away and let Bellamy do the talking.

But logic failed him miserably, and he felt himself stiffen as their gazes met. Could she tell, even from the way he looked at her, how completely he regretted his actions? How he wished things could have been different? How he had never meant to hurt her, wouldn't hurt her for all of Panem, and that - by some horrid Capitol reasoning - was the very thing keeping them apart? 

“I’m Doctor Griffin. What’s wro-“ Abby started, looking at Bellamy, then to Marcus again, then to Octavia. Her jaw set at the sight of the girl, her lips pursing into a firm line. There was a deafening quiet in which Marcus truly wondered what would happen. It wouldn't have shocked him if she told Bellamy to take Octavia and told him to go home. He'd deserve it. Marcus had no business being here on her doorstep in the middle of the night, and no apology could dull the pain he'd inflicted upon her.

“Come in,” Abby said, and Marcus felt like a vise had been released from around his lungs.

Abby's tone was an icy brand of professional as she moved through the house at a breakneck pace, the gravity of the situation apparent to her trained eye. “Set her down here,” she ordered him, gesturing to a cot he already knew where to find. Marcus lay Octavia down gently on the bed, noticing her wound was still fresh. If she'd been injured recently, perhaps they wouldn't have to worry about blood loss. 

Apparently, Abby wondered the same thing.

“Can you tell me how much blood she’s lost?” she asked him, all but glaring at him as she directed Bellamy to keep pressure on the wound.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I wasn’t there.”

She gave an exasperated sigh, turning her gaze to Bellamy.

“Do you know?” she asked.

“A lot,” Bellamy said, shaken. His brown eyes were wide with fear, and he spoke so quickly Marcus could barely understand him. “We were hunting, and she was attacked by a mountain lion.”

“Can you give me an estimate?” Abby asked, softening her tone as the puzzle pieces connected - she'd likely assumed the connection between the kids. “I need to know so I can treat her.”

Bellamy’s eyes wandered around the room, and he suddenly stiffened.

“More than that cup over there,” he said, pointing to a glass she had left on the counter.

Abby paled. “She's at risk of going into shock,” she said. “Are you her brother? Do you know if you have the same blood type?”

Bellamy shook his head. “We haven’t seen a doctor before,” he said. “I don’t know hers, or mine. She’s my sister, if that makes a difference. ”

“It might or might not. I need to test you both,” she said, running over to a drawer and pulling out a tiny machine Marcus had never seen before - Peacekeepers weren't doctors, and he hadn't glimpsed half of the Capitol's advanced medical procedures. No doubt, he thought, this was something Jake had managed to somehow acquire for her.

“We have to hurry," Abby said, staring at Bellamy. "Hold out your arm.”

Bellamy offered Abby his forearm, and she warned him the machine’s injection might sting as it drew a sample. He didn’t so much as flinch when the needle delved beneath his tanned skin, keeping his eyes on Octavia the entire time.

“You’re A positive,” Abby said after a pause, reading from the tiny screen on her instrument. “I’ll need to test her next.”

Bellamy moved to his sister’s opposite side, never taking his hands off the wound as he rotated around the cot. Abby held her forearm and repeated the process. Much to Marcus and Bellamy’s displeasure, she frowned after the machine displayed its result.

“She’s B positive,” Abby said flatly, looking from the machine to Bellamy and back at the machine again. “You aren’t compatible.”

Bellamy glanced quickly at Marcus, just long enough for him to register the panic bubbling to the surface in the boy’s eyes. _There has to be another way, Abby. Please._

“What does that mean?” he asked Abby, his hands shaking as he pressed the cloth to his sister’s side. “What does it mean if our blood types aren’t compatible?”

“It means you can’t donate blood to her,” Abby said. “Her body would reject it.”

They shared a panicked silence for a moment, each of them trying to figure out what to do next.

“What about me?” Marcus suggested, and Abby turned to him with a frown. “Could I donate for her?”

“Do you know your blood type?” she asked, moving away from Octavia to stand closer to him. Despite their dire circumstances, it caused a physical ache in his chest to be this close to her, to be able to reach out and touch her while knowing she was so much farther away than a few inches.

“I’m not sure,” he said, and he could tell she was biting back a groan of frustration. He admitted his blood type was something he likely should’ve known, and at one point during training he’d been told what it was, but years of letting the knowledge lie dormant had rendered it unreachable to him. It hadn't been useful, and there was little room in his mind for facts that served no purpose.

"Test me, then," Marcus volunteered. Abby wasted no time in reaching forward and helping him roll up the sleeve of his jacket, wrapping her fingers around his forearm.

“This might sting a little,” she warned him, but he was too focused on the sensation of her fingertips against his skin to notice the machine pricking him.

“O negative,” she announced, and Bellamy and Marcus looked at her blankly. “She wouldn't reject your donation.”

“I’ll do it,” Marcus said quickly, understanding time was of the essence. “I’ll do it.”

Bellamy relaxed a little, and Marcus couldn’t keep the tiniest of smiles off his face. It was, he thought, a good thing Abby didn’t tell him to get lost from the second she opened the door.

“She’ll have to undergo a transfusion,” Abby explained. “I’ll connect you to one part of a machine, and Octavia to the other. That machine will collect a safe amount of your blood and store it, then transfer it to her.”

Marcus nodded.

“What if she needs more than a _safe_ amount?” Bellamy asked, maintaining pressure with one hand and stroking his sister’s forehead with the other. “Will you still be able to help her?”

Abby looked Bellamy in the eyes as she left to retrieve the machine tasked with saving his sister’s life, and said exactly what Marcus hoped she wouldn’t say.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t need more than that.”

She left to set up the machine, and Bellamy turned to Marcus with frightened eyes.

“Is this going to work, Kane?”

“Abby’s an excellent doctor,” he said after a pause, remembering his uncertainty before they'd even arrived. The simple answer was that Abby was their only option, and Bellamy had to know it. “If she thinks it’ll work, it will.”

The doctor returned with a small machine, less than a foot wide and nearly six inches long. Abby turned her back to him, placing the machine on the edge of Octavia’s cot, and when she turned to face him she held two things, In one hand she held a cotton swab, doused in antiseptic, which didn’t seem threatening at all; and in the other she held a needle, which most certainly did.

He didn’t know how he thought he’d give blood without the use of needle, but it hadn’t crossed his mind. Involuntarily, he shuddered. Abby, busy with preparations, didn’t notice.

Now seemed as good a time as any to get over his fear of needles, and as he looked at Bellamy and Octavia, he realized he’d never had a better reason to conquer his fear.

* * *

Once the procedure was over, Abby finally allowed herself to breathe.

She didn’t know either of the kids – apparently _they_ knew _Marcus_ , which was surprising in and of itself – but it was clear the boy loved his sister deeply. The distress on his face when she told him he wouldn’t be able to donate for her was impossible to fake.

The girl responded well to the transfusion, regained some color in her cheeks when all was done. Her brother managed to put a stop to the bleeding, and Abby cleaned and stitched the wound in her side. She certainly wouldn’t be out in the woods anytime soon – not until the injury healed, which would be a few weeks at the earliest – but she would be okay.

In fact, she was responding better to the chaos of the night than Marcus. After the second donation he’d been unable to stand by himself, and Abby had to guide him to the chair by the fireplace. She’d expected him to be lightheaded after the procedure, and she’d had to take a little more than the recommended amount of blood to heal her at Marcus' insistent prompting. But this level of fatigue was unnatural, even given the extenuating circumstances.

Normally, she would’ve asked a donor typical pre-procedure questions. _When was the last time you’ve eaten? Are you healthy? How much do you weigh?_ But every second brought them closer to losing the girl, and she knew Marcus was healthy. She knew he weighed more than the lowest reaches of the limit. But as for his eating habits…he gave so much to everyone else, did he save any of the Capitol’s food for himself?

The boy startled her, speaking to her as she monitored Marcus’ condition from across the living room.

“Is he okay?” he asked, concern evident in his posture and the desperation in his dark brown eyes.

“He’ll be fine,” Abby responded, realizing she’d been repeating those words to herself over and over again since he passed out. _He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine._ Even after everything that happened between them, seeing Marcus like this made her sick to her stomach. He'd risked his life for someone he cared about, and she hated the possibility that he'd now be suffering for it. 

“Help me move him to the couch,” she said. “He needs to lie down.”

A few minutes later, Marcus Kane lay on the same couch she and him had shared just over a week ago. Ignoring the irksome gnawing sensations in her stomach and the throbbing in her head, she looked at the boy and gave him clear orders.

“You can go stay with your sister if you want,” Abby said to the boy. “There’s an extra bed in the room. We can take the night in shifts if you need to sleep."

The boy shook his head.

"You stay with Kane," he said. "I'll stay with Octavia."

Knowing next to nothing about him, Abby had to admire his determination.

"All right. But let me know if anything changes.”

He nodded. "Thank you, Doctor Griffin."

Abby managed a tiny, wan smile. "You can call me Abby, but don't thank me yet. Thank me in the morning..."

She paused, realizing she had a name for his sister, but not for him. 

"Bellamy," he said, matching her smile. 

"Thank me in the morning, _Bellamy_ ," she said, and with that, Bellamy walked away.

And then Abby was alone with the man who, somehow, was still able to cause a hurricane of emotions inside her. She'd expected seeing him to be much like glimpsing him in passing on the street: brief, faint, just far enough away to expel those bothersome emotions that bubbled up from inside her whenever she made the mistake of meeting his brown eyes. Tonight hadn't gone the way she expected, to say the least. Why did seeing him in her home hurt so badly? Why did her uncertainty over his fate bother her on a deep, personal level when he'd made it clear nothing could exist between them but professionalism? 

She sighed, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and prepared herself for a damn long night.

“Marcus,” Abby said, shaking him in an attempt to wake him up. As a doctor she knew he needed water and food, and he needed it as soon as possible. “Marcus, wake up.”

His eyes opened just a fraction: a millimeter enough for her to give a gigantic sigh of relief. 

“Octavia?” he whispered, words coming out as a quiet mumble. “Is she all right?”

“She’s fine for now,” Abby said, kneeling down to be on his level. “I think transfusion worked. I'll have to wait it out overnight to be sure.”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his relief palpable. But the second he closed his eyes, Abby began shaking him again.

“I need you to stay with me,” she said, wondering if her voice conveyed any of the confusing, frustrating desperation she felt. “You need to drink some water. Eat. Did you have anything earlier today?”

He stared at her under the low lamplight and said something she couldn’t understand, words tumbling from his lips in a jumbled, slurred mess. When it became apparent that she couldn't understand him, he repeated himself.

“You’re so...” he whispered, and Abby frowned. Whatever was going through his head right now was all but meaningless, and yet...

"So what?" she asked.

He gave her a smile she could only describe as heartbreaking, his voice a palpable ache in her heart.

"Beautiful."

Abby felt her cheeks flush, reminded her racing heart that he wasn’t himself right now – he’d passed out only twenty minutes ago – and anything he said at the moment was the equivalent of words uttered while drunk. They could be nice, sweet, heartwarming, but they weren’t real.

“I need to get you some water,” she said, already shoving those three syllables in the past where they belonged.

“No, Abby. Wait,” Marcus said, his fingers closing around her wrist with a surprising amount of strength. It wasn’t forceful, but determined. She could’ve freed herself from his grasp, and a small, logical part of her knew that was the right thing to do. They’d gone down this road before, and it had driven whatever flimsy relationship they had off a cliff. Whatever he was about to say was likely to set those broken smithereens aflame.

“We can’t do this,” Abby said, making a weak attempt to pull away from him. “You made it clear it wasn’t what you wanted.”

His hand traveled lower, entwining his fingers with hers. Hating herself all the while, Abby held him in return, ignoring the alarm bells blaring in her head and the somersaults her stomach performed.

“I never said that,” he countered. “I said it wasn’t a good idea.”

In spite of herself, Abby snorted.

“What’s the difference?”

For the first time since she’d woken him up, Marcus opened his eyes completely. They were nearly black in the dim light, tired but innocent, with no trace of the restraint or reservation she usually glimpsed in them. The procedure had left him free and unencumbered, if a bit loopy.

“The difference is-“ he began, but stopped short of finishing his sentence and closed his eyes. “Abby, I’m so dizzy.”

Abby let out a deep breath, carefully placing his hand back at his side.

“I’ll get you some food and water,” she said, walking away before he could say anything else. It was better for both of them to leave his sentence unfinished, to let their circumstances and past finish it.

But what had he meant when he said ‘it wasn’t a good idea’? Why bother making the distinction between those phrases? Either way, nothing could happen.

As she let the water fill the scratched glass, she reminded herself she had no clue what Marcus might or might not know surrounding the circumstances of Jake’s death. It seemed unlikely that he’d withhold information from her, especially on a subject so personal for both of them. And yet, before last week she wouldn’t have thought he’d lead her on for the better part of two months, only to bring things to a screeching halt with a single phone call.

With no small amount of regret, she also realized it would’ve seemed unlikely to her that she’d ever try to kiss him, as recently as a month and a half ago. Everything had seemed so perfect then, in that moment on the couch – the sun shining, Clarke nursed back to health, his comforting presence scaring away the demons in her head – as dreamlike then as things were nightmarish between them now.

At her core, she almost wondered if the idiocy had all been hers. Did she really let herself believe he wouldn’t have restrictions on relationships? On who the Capitol would allow him to be with? One thing was certain: they’d frown upon one of their officers falling in love with a woman who’d broken a laundry list of laws in a single day. A Peacekeeper with someone like that – a true impossibility.

Or, perhaps more terrifying: she’d read the signs all wrong. The way he looked at her had been nothing more than pity for Clarke, and he’d only meant to help her by delivering the medicine and spending time with her. Perhaps he was too modest, too kind, too indebted to the man who’d once been his best friend to tell her the thought of being with her was repugnant to him. But just now...when he called her beautiful...could he have meant it? Was it possible? 

She didn’t notice the water overflowing from the rim of the glass until it had soaked the sleeve of her jacket and filled the sink halfway. Cursing, she turned off the faucet and shed the waterlogged garment, letting it crumple in a heap on the floor. Morning, she thought, was the time to deal with such things. Once Marcus Kane had left her house.

Carefully, as to not spill more, she made her way back to the man on the couch.

“Marcus,” she said quietly, although the boy was too far away to hear and she had no intention of saying anything that could betray her polarized emotions. “You need to drink something.”

He sighed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, and then let out a small groan.

“Thank you,” he said. He tried to sit up, forcing his hands against the cushions and shoving with all the strength he had, but it wasn’t enough. Collapsing back against the pillows and breathing heavily, Abby knew what had to be done.

“Here,” she said, helping him position his body so his back was leaning against the pillows. “Let me help.”

He fixed her with the same wide-eyed gaze, clearly caught off-guard by her offer.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Abby, I-“

“Marcus, I’m a doctor,” she said. “It's part of my job.”

 _Part of my job._ She was so tired, she hadn’t been thinking, but she wished she could prevent those words from forming. It was apparent from the tension that wracked his body that Marcus remembered them, too: a week wasn’t long enough to forget something so pivotal they’d shared, an inside joke that collapsed like a burning building after his phone call. What those words had almost led to, the unchecked yearning she'd felt.

 _It’s just a phrase,_ she reminded herself. _Just because you said it to him when you almost…it doesn’t mean anything now._

So, remembering how Clarke had done the same for her after the whipping, she raised the glass of water to Marcus Kane’s lips and allowed him to drink. He drank the majority of the contents on the first try – she was left with only a few drops in the bottom of the glass.

“Do you want more?” she asked, and he shook his head.

Skeptical, Abby raised her eyebrows. “Don’t lie to me.”

Their hands overlapped as she pulled the glass away from him, and he sounded semi-lucid when he spoke.

“I would never lie to you,” he said, and for a heartbeat of a second she wondered if he wasn’t just talking about the water.

“You need to eat something,” she pointed out, remembering he hadn’t answered her when she asked how recently he’d eaten.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t care. This isn’t about being hungry, Marcus. This is about not passing out again.”

He clenched his jaw and made another attempt to sit up that Abby stopped by lunging forward to place a hand on the center of his chest. Her traitorous body responded before her brain could, and she felt her muscles weaken a bit when she sensed the warmth of his skin through his thin shirt.

“What did I just say?” she said, hoping to conceal her reaction under her guise as doctor, feigning exasperation. “Honestly, would you rather be unconscious?”

“You should be spending time with Octavia,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Her brother's with her, and you’re not fine,” she insisted, leaning closer as if it would help her get the truth out of him. As if somehow their proximity and his stubbornness were linked, and lessening the distance between them would weaken his idiotic resolve. “Did you eat anything today?”

He grimaced.

“No.”

 _Dammit, Marcus._ “I’ll see what I have,” she said, her hand still resting on his chest. Her fingers twitched with his every heartbeat, and she couldn’t help but remember the last time they’d been this close to each other.

“You don’t need to,” he urged her. “Abby, I’m fine. I’ll be fine for the next few hours. Check on Octavia, and get some rest.”

“If you don’t eat, you’ll pass out again,” she said. “I’m not going to let that happen, so stop arguing with me.”

He shut his mouth, and she couldn’t stop herself from smirking as she withdrew her hand. _So we’re done here._

On that note she stood up and walked back into her kitchen, rummaging through her pantry for something, anything, that would help ensure he’d safely make it through the night. Eventually she found some cookies – a gift from the baker, a tall, burly man who used to make special treats just for Clarke – sealed in a bag, kept fresh over the past few days.

They held too many sad memories for Abby to taste their sweetness, but Marcus’ taste buds wouldn’t be similarly tainted. And ultimately, it didn’t matter if he liked them. It mattered that he ate them.

She made her way back to the couch, placing the box of cookies down on the coffee table and handing him one.

“Do you need my help?” she asked. He refused, saying he felt well enough to eat on his own.

“Go check on Octavia and Bellamy,” he said. “Please.”

His tone was so desperate, so pleading, and she found herself unable to debate with him any longer.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you need anything, I expect you to tell me. I’m not going to let you suffer.”

He wouldn't tell her, and that much she knew. But she wanted to believe there was some meaning in offering, and in doing so, maybe she could scare away a few of the ghosts that haunted their past. 

"I know," he said, that same hollow regret resurfacing in his tone. "I know."

Abby didn't have time to dissect it - to find meaning where there likely was none - so she left him with a glass of water next to the couch, and hoped someday she could find an island of peace in the sea of uncertainty Marcus Kane had caused her. 


	20. Cold Light of Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I updated. A full-time internship and family stuff has kept me away from my keyboard! Anyway, this is almost 6,000 words, and I hope it makes up for the lack of a chapter last week. I'm venturing a guess that you guys will enjoy this one. ;)

Morning came slowly, quietly, in short intervals of rest and checking on her patient. After spending hours wandering around her home and assessing Octavia’s condition, she deemed the girl stable and retired to the chair across from Marcus. In sleep he looked peaceful, the worries that plagued him during the day evasive at night. Abby hoped she might find that same tranquility.

But rest ran from her that night and gifted her with only nightmares. She awoke earlier than usual and couldn’t force herself back into a slumber, horrifying images of Clarke and Jake burning behind her eyelids. She’d resigned herself to her lonely, wakeful fate when she heard movement and jumped, having momentarily forgotten Marcus’ presence.

Briefly, she wondered if he’d been watching her sleep. Had he done that before, during the night with no nightmares? Or had he just been awake, and she was jumping to conclusions?

Yawning, she decided to leave those questions alone and get on with her day.

“Good morning,” she said, glancing at him as she stretched. Every muscle in her body shrieked, and she realized the stupidity of believing she could sleep curled up on a chair and not suffer from it the next day. Maybe when she was twenty, but forty was pushing a painful limit.

“Good morning,” he responded, each word measured and careful. It didn’t take her long to adjust to his wakefulness, and soon she stood and began cleaning up the mess from last night. His shirt was stained with dried blood – the aftermath of saving Octavia’s life – and after going upstairs she offered him a clean shirt of Jake’s. He accepted with some reluctance, placing the garment on the couch where, she guessed, it would remain unless she shoved it at him once more.

“So, how do you know those kids?” she asked, averting her eyes as he changed. She made herself useful by picking up the now-empty bag of cookies. At some point during the night he or Bellamy must have eaten them, but they were either superb at consuming them quietly or she’d been so deeply asleep that she hadn’t heard them.

“They’re living in my old house,” he said. Abby couldn’t stop shock from registering on her face – Marcus’ house hadn’t been a _lovely_ place when he was growing up there, and despite Vera’s attempts at upkeep it had fallen into irreparable disarray. There was only so much Mrs. Kane could do with inherited rotting wood and peeling paint. For two kids to be living there, day after day…she could hardly imagine.

“Do their parents know you took them here?” she asked, depositing the bag into the trash. She had an answer to that question, but thought it best not to make assumptions.

“They’re orphans, Abby,” Marcus said, and it was impossible for her to miss the sympathy in his words. “They’ve been living in that house for years without anyone knowing.”

“Well, now that _you_ know, what are you going to do about it?” she asked, turning pack to him and returning to her place in the chair. “The Capitol has instructions on what to do with orphans, I’m sure.”

His face fell, and although she hadn’t meant to emphasize bitterness she supposed it must have shown through. Considering she’d be joining the rebellion, perhaps bitterness against the Capitol was part of her now. Or, she mused, more likely it had always been.

“I asked Bellamy to live with me a few days ago,” he said, and Abby’s eyes widened. “That house is huge. Living there alone…” he trailed off, and Abby found herself sympathizing with him. Living in a huge house by herself was at least part of what caused her nightmares.

“That has to be against the code,” she said. It was only meant as an observation, although she knew they were walking circles around something they needed to run through, aiming arrows but not hitting the bullseye. When he looked at her, his expression was replete with regret.

“It is,” he said softly. “But it doesn’t matter. They’re too proud to accept.”

_Unlike the woman who begged you to stay._

Staring at him like this under cold morning light she realized she might not see him again after today – or at least, not like this. Not with him sitting on the couch less than ten feet away from her, staring at her like she was the first rainfall after a drought. Like she was one of his favorite books, returned to him. Except the rainfall didn’t last long, and the pages of the book had been ripped.

But if this was the last time she’d see Marcus Kane before leaving for District Thirteen, she had to know. She had to know if this man, the man she almost kissed, the man who held her through the night, the man who broke code to protect a pair of orphans, was harboring an unspeakable lie. So, with her heart in her throat, she spoke.

“Marcus, I found out something about Jake the other day,” she said in a near-stammer, not trusting her voice to stay steady. Her companion raised his eyebrows, turning toward her a fraction.

“What was it?” he asked.

She took a deep breath, and told him.

“I never knew it, but he was part of a rebellion,” she said. Telling him much more wouldn’t be safe – she couldn’t tell him what rebellion he’d been part of, or where he’d gone. But this – she had to rectify this, if only to stop her heart’s attempt to claw its way up her throat.

“He was part of a rebellion, and the Capitol found out,” she continued, and Marcus paled. “That day on the train…it wasn’t an accident.”

“Abby, I’m so-“

 _Sorry._ His next word would be ‘sorry’, and she couldn’t hear that. Not now. Not with her pulse blaring in her ears like a war drum, not with their entire shattered relationship resting on how he responded to her next question.

“And I need you to tell me the truth,” she said, praying she’d be able to tell from the look in his eyes whether or not he’d been deceiving her the entire time. “Marcus, did you know?”

For a few moments, quiet.

She heard the creaking of the house as the wind brushed against decades-old wood, heard the singing of birds outside, felt keenly aware of the screaming of her own heart and the burning inside her lungs. Every second was a year, every minute an eon, and she shoved her trembling hands into her pockets to allay any suspicion that his answer mattered to her. With their relationship forbidden, why should she care?

Why _did_ she care?

“It all makes sense,” he whispered, and Abby frowned. Of the responses she decided he might give when she’d run through this scenario in her head, ‘it all makes sense’ hadn’t occurred to her.

“What?” she said, despising herself for how clueless she sounded. “What makes sense?”

“My commanding officer, Pike, told me when I was reassigned that after what happened to Jake, Snow was worried about a rebellion, and he said you needed to be watched. It was made clear to me that I couldn’t be lenient in punishing you. And your whipping was broadcast to all the districts, instead of being kept to just 12,” he said. “I never understood why you and Jake were so important to them.”

 _Neither did I,_ she thought, consumed with a longing to be able to talk to her husband one last time. To ask him why he hadn’t told her about his role. To get angry, to yell, to cry.

Then to love him anyway. Because she always would – rebel or not. Jake Griffin had carved out a place in her heart and called it home, and he’d forever live there. As conflicted as she was about the decision he made, she knew one thing for certain: it had to be for the greater good. He must have felt it served some higher purpose, one he supported and believed in. Keeping she and Clarke in the dark…it would be a while before she accepted it, but she could understand.

But Marcus had shared highly privileged information with her, now: things she wouldn’t have been allowed to know if she weren’t sitting ten feet away from a Capitol official whose guilt and kindness opened that vault of secrets to her. His surprise at the revelation had appeared genuine, and the combination of those two - the detail and the shock – made her believe he hadn’t known.

“I had no idea about Jake, Abby,” he said. “If I had…” he paused, the gravity of the situation sinking in as he leaned back against the cushions and took a deep breath. “If I had, I wouldn’t be a Peacekeeper.”

Now it was her turn to frown, leaning closer to him as the sun rose in the sky and shortened the shadows around them.

“You told me you couldn’t just _quit_ ,” she said. “What else would you have done? Run off, lived in the woods?”

He laughed, a sound tainted with unspeakable sadness.

“No,” he said. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t have been an option. Running away from the Capitol isn’t a simple task, especially for a Peacekeeper. I suppose I would have taken up mining, like my father.”

He looked so tired and sad and broken that she couldn’t help herself: she stood up and walked over to him, sitting down on the cushion next to his. A week ago, she would have found the proximity, the closeness, dizzying. If she moved an inch to her right, their thighs would touch. But after everything they’d been through, Abby found it almost impossible to think like that, and her body felt…not numb, but dormant. Quiet.

Waiting.

The one question to which she most needed an answer was the one she was scared to ask. _What are you going to do now?_

“Jaha gave me an ultimatum,” he blurted suddenly, and the room shifted on its axis.

“What?”

“Technically, it came from Pike,” he said, words dampened with a note of resignation. “Jaha isn’t happy with the amount of time I’m spending with citizens, and how I’m helping them with my rations from the Capitol. He said I can either stay here and keep my distance, or go back.”

Go back to the Capitol? What did that mean? Would he be reassigned to a new district? And why did the thought of him leaving feel like a hole had been punched in her chest?

“Do you know what you’re going to do?” she asked. His eyes slipped shut, and he let out a long, deep sigh.

“I don’t,” he said. “I don’t know. Jaha’s given me until the end of the month to decide.”

_The end of the month. That’s…_

“Six days,” she said, whispering to herself more than him. _I might only have six days left with him._

Six days with the man who helped her fight away her nightmares. Six days with the man who delivered medicines for her so she could see her daughter on the Capitol’s broadcasts. Six days with the man who felt so guilty about whipping her that he de-electrified the fences.

She could barely breathe.

“What I said last night, about anything between us ‘not being a good idea’…I never got to finish it,” he said softly, and Abby’s stomach dropped.

“Marcus, we really shouldn’t-“

“I was going to say it doesn’t matter anymore. None of it.”

The early morning sunlight cast him in an ethereal glow, so much that it strained her eyes just to look at him.

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” Abby said. Her tone carried an edge, sharpened by regret over dreams she knew could never happen. “It seemed to matter when you called me.”

He leaned back, out of the sunlight, and she was able to see him again. He folded his hands in his lap and swallowed hard, remorse radiating off him like sunbeams.

“I never should have. The week I spent without you has been hell, Abby. Everywhere I look, I see you,” he said, and a lump began forming in her throat when she heard his voice shaking. “I know what the code says. I know what I’m supposed to do. But without you, I’ve been miserable. And then I got the news that if I stay here, I won’t be able to see you…at least not like this.”

Thinking of her own recent commitment to District 13’s uprising, Abby broke eye contact. The last week hadn’t been easy for her, either. But would it be harder for them now, now that they’d always be looking over their shoulders in fear? Searching the darkness for any sign of the Capitol? That was, she thought, no way to live. And certainly no way to love.

“When I said those things to you, I was angry. I was angry at myself for involving you in something that the Capitol had forbidden. I was angry at the Capitol for their restrictions. But I should never have taken any of it out on you, and for that I’m sorry. In all of this, you’re the only one who’s blameless.”

Abby locked gazes with him again, moving closer so the fabric of her patched pants brushed against his leg.

“I’m not,” she said slowly, as if each word drained a fraction of the feeble energy that remained in her after last night. “I hugged you in the woods, and I asked you to stay.”

“But I could’ve said no,” he responded, the guilt in his eyes stimulating the same emotion deep inside her. “Things would be easier for both of us if I had.”

“Then why didn’t you?” she asked. “If you knew you were going to end up regretting this, why didn’t you say no?”

She expected him to say something about their past. About atoning for his sins, about doing the right thing after years of guilt over Jake. She expected him to talk about Clarke, to say he felt he needed to help her. To pass on his memories of her father to someone who needed them more than he did.

But she hadn’t expected him to lean across the couch, closing the narrow gap between them in an instant as he brushed his lips against hers in a slow, gentle kiss.

Her last logical thought before melting into him completely was one word, over and over again to the thrumming beat of her heart: _finally._

His fingers cupped her chin as they tried to reconcile the odd angle – the thought floated through her head that it would’ve been better if the doorbell had never rang after he spent the night – but they did the best they could while encumbered by exhaustion and rules and a thousand things they wished they could forget.

The kiss ended too soon.

It was like inhaling but forgetting to exhale, jumping but never coming down. He leaned away and withdrew his hand as if she were glass, and in touching her, kissing her, she might shatter. The last thing Abby wanted to do was open her eyes – the sun was too bright, the world around them too frustratingly real and ripe with rebellions, ultimatums and laws.

With a rush, she realized she didn’t want to open her eyes to a world where Marcus Kane wasn’t kissing her. Where Marcus Kane wasn’t _allowed_ to kiss her, where he might go back to the Capitol on the same train that took her husband from her and never return.

Yearning to keep the euphoric haze from evaporating, she did exactly what every practical part of her screamed for her not to do: she closed the distance between them again, drawing him to her in a second, far less gentle kiss.

He tasted like hope, like the answer to a question she’d been asking ever since he set foot on Twelve’s soil. It had been so long since she’d felt like this – her blood rushing in her ears, heart racing, every nerve ending in her body so gloriously, ferociously aflame - and it was intoxicating.

He tasted like freedom from her nightmares, from the Capitol, from regulation and oppression. And she could get hopelessly drunk off of him, off the little ragged breaths he took when they parted and the growl that rumbled deep in his throat when she dragged her teeth across his lower lip.

_Thud._

They both froze, suddenly remembering there were other people in the house besides the two of them.

“Bellamy,” Marcus whispered, moving his head to her shoulder as he slowly withdrew his fingers.

_God dammit._

Abby opened her eyes gradually to the real world, and Marcus placed a final, soft kiss on her forehead. When she looked at him again, they wore matching smiles, their cheeks flushed, their eyes sparkling like the dewdrops on the grass outside. Even though everything was ending around them, their world tearing apart, they’d managed to build something beautiful. But with Bellamy fast approaching and Octavia needing attention, they had no time to discuss beautiful things.

“Go change your shirt,” she said. “There’s a shower upstairs, if you need it.”

She trailed off, only meaning to imply he might need to wash after carrying Octavia last night. But his nod was hurried and curt, and she realized that might not be the only reason Marcus needed a shower.

Desperate to finish what they started, she almost added ‘and I’ll join you’. But with Bellamy (and possibly Octavia) awake, that wouldn’t be a possibility. He left after giving her one more quick, chaste kiss, and ran up the stairs before any eyes other than Abby’s fell on him.

Bellamy entered the room soon afterward, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

“Octavia’s awake, Doctor Griffin,” he announced. “She wants to see you.”

* * *

 

Marcus made his way down Abby’s stairs, tan carpeting soft beneath his feet as he descended. Every inch of his skin tingled from contact with the cold water, and truthfully, he wasn’t sure if that solution was permanent. Despite their time apart, it would take a great deal of restraint to keep him from shoving her against the nearest surface and kissing her senseless.

Everything was almost perfect, he thought. Octavia was healed. Bellamy was happy. Abby had forgiven him, and there was little doubt left in him that she felt the same for him as he did for her. Everything was almost perfect, except he had a decision in front of him that he had no clue how to make. Everything was almost perfect, except Clarke was still fighting in the Games.

Staying in Twelve was the clear choice. He had a thousand reasons to cement himself in the district and never leave – Octavia, Bellamy, Abby, and hopefully Clarke – but the problem was that they’d cease to be reasons if he stayed. Thelonious made himself quite clear: if he remained in here, he would lose the people he loved to his job. But what would wait for him in the Capitol, if he went back? He certainly wouldn’t be able to see anyone from his home district again. Going back to Pike would bring him a reassignment at best, and a death sentence at worst.

At least Abby knew, he told himself. She understood the impossible situation in front of him, and she didn’t care.

Objectively, he’d always known how deeply Abby Griffin could love. He’d seen it with Jake first, then Clarke, and even Raven. She harnessed a power strong enough to melt rivalries, to turn enemies into friends and change the minds of even the most strictly set in their ways. He had never thought that power would apply to him.

Stepping onto the wood floor at the base of the stairs, he found her waiting for him with a small smile and a hand on her hip.

“Well, finally,” she said, moving close enough to make him dizzy. “I thought I was going to have to come up there and get you.”

He smiled back at her, wondering how so much could change in one beautiful morning. If he leaned down he could kiss her again, brush his lips against her lips, her neck…reluctantly, he thought better of it. Starting here, with Bellamy awake, was a recipe for disaster.

“Another time,” he said, the reality that he only had six days with her forming a pit in his stomach. Abby must have arrived at the same conclusion, because her smile shrunk a fraction, the playful glimmer in her brown eyes tarnishing. But instead of acknowledging that less-than-pleasant fact, she ushered him toward Octavia’s room.

“I already talked to her,” she said. “She wants to see you.”

The door was closed, making it safe for her to lean upward and press a warm kiss to his cheek before turning around and leaving him to enter the room alone.

Octavia lay in the center of the cot, her hair flowing free like a dark waterfall. A hint of color had returned to her cheeks – _thank God,_ Marcus thought – and his heart warmed when she gave him the tiniest of smiles.

“Hey, Kane,” she said, words escaping as a hoarse croak.

“Octavia,” he said, sitting down in the chair next to her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m great,” she said with an eye-roll, brushing her fingertips gingerly over the IV in her arm. “Can't think of anything I’d rather be doing than laying on this cot.”

"At least you're all right," Marcus said. "You're safe."

She was quiet, her lips a thin line, and bewildered, Marcus wondered what she could possibly have to be angry about. 

“Well, you can’t be upset with anyone but yourself,” Marcus said, wondering how their conversation had evolved into a lecture. “If you hadn’t gone outside the fences, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Octavia glared at him, although there was no real malice behind it. “Says you,” she muttered. “The Peacekeeper who breaks his own rules. How many times have _you_ gone outside the fence?”

Why the hell was she so bitter? The accident happened, Bellamy brought her to him, and he brought her here. Abby saved her life. This wasn’t at all what he expected when he walked into the room, his euphoric haze of contentment slowly disintegrating into unease and confusion. Not that Octavia Blake was known for her sunshiny, cheerful disposition, but he’d thought she’d at least offer some gratitude. Hopefully she'd thought to be kinder to Abby. 

“I’ll tell Bellamy to come back,” Marcus said. “Clearly, you'd rather be with him right now.”

She didn’t respond right away, and when she did her tone was frigid.

“I don’t expect you to get it,” she said, turning to face the wall instead of him. “But everything she has – this fancy house, these supplies, all of it – came from the Capitol. I wasn’t the one taking your food into our house, Kane. I don’t need their handouts to survive.”

“Octavia, Abby hates the Capitol just as much as you do. But she saved your life,” Marcus hissed, trying not to yell and finding it difficult. How could she be so blind? So ignorant? “Without her, you would’ve bled out in your brother’s arms. Is that what you wanted? Would you really rather _die_ than accept her help?”

“If not for the damn Capitol, I’d still have my mom!” Octavia said, and Marcus leaned back in his chair. There was a difference in her brother’s story as compared to hers, and he wondered which one was true.

“Bellamy told me she passed away from a fever,” he said slowly, trying not to make it apparent that he was questioning her claim. “That she requested not to see a doctor.”

“Yeah, well what did you think he’d tell you? ‘Fever’ sounds a hell of a lot better than ‘executed for prostitution’, Kane.”

Marcus knew jobs for women in Twelve were scarce – that was why he’d sent Vera money after he secured a job. But he hadn’t known how desperate the situation could be for a woman with two children and no husband. That, he realized, was a burden he could never understand, and he shuddered to think of the horrific fate their government had condemned Mrs. Blake to suffer.

“Octavia, I’m so sorry,” he said, and he heard her sniffle. She was so strong, such a skilled hunter, that he forgot she was only fifteen. And sometimes, fifteen-year-olds didn’t want promises of food and water. Sometimes, fifteen-year-olds didn’t want to give thanks for what they’d been given. Sometimes, fifteen-year-olds didn't want the Peacekeeper who promised them shelter, or a brother who protected them from harm until that harm struck when he wasn't looking. 

Sometimes, fifteen-year-olds just wanted their mom.

“Not your fault,” she sniffled. “You weren’t the Peacekeeper back then. But Bell and I hated Cray with a passion.”

“I understand,” Marcus said, wishing she’d turn around so she could see the sympathy in his eyes. He really did understand – not what it was like to lose someone you love to the Capitol, but to be kept away from them. The pain of losing his own mother still surfaced, even years after her peaceful passing. “The tree you tended to in the house was my mother’s, Octavia, and I miss her every day.”

The girl turned over, fixing her gaze on the ceiling instead of him.

“I didn’t know it was your mom’s,” she said, her voice noticeably softer. “I just figured it was there. And it needed help, so…”

“She would’ve been happy you saved it,” Marcus said, picturing his mother’s smile when she tended to the tree, remembering the elation he felt when she allowed him to water it and carry it outside to get sunlight. “She always said she was going to plant it in the woods one day.”

Octavia had nothing to say to that, but she looked at him for the first time in their conversation. That, Marcus thought, was progress.

They stared at each other for a long moment, speaking through glances and body language, until Marcus asked the question that had been on his mind since her outburst.

“If you hate the Capitol so much,” he said, “why do you and Bellamy tolerate me?”

She shrugged, white sheets rustling against her tan shoulders.

“You’re different,” she said. “Most of the people from the Capitol don’t give a shit about the kids here, except when they’re eligible for the Games. You’re the first person from that hellhole who’s trying to help.”

Marcus unexpectedly found his vision blurring with tears, and forced himself to look away. He didn’t know quite when he’d become so protective of Octavia and her brother. It might have been their first meeting, when he ran into them in his old house: that, he supposed, gave the sibling duo a built-in sentimentality. But it wasn’t just that they lived in the house that used to be his. It was in the way Bellamy loved to read. It was in the way he protected his sister, in his motivation to do the right thing at any and every personal cost. It was in the ferocity with which Octavia defended his mother’s Eden tree, in the genuine smile she wore when she interacted with younger kids.

Abby and Clarke weren’t the only citizens in Twelve who had a hold on his heart.

“Thank you,” he said, and she smiled the smile that made his heart ache with an emotion he never thought he’d feel.

He always told himself he wasn’t having kids, even when he was with Callie. For nearly thirty years, his resolve on the subject hadn’t wavered. The Games did nothing to change his mind: although he was a Peacekeeper, his children would be eligible. That thought always left him with a bad taste in his mouth and a hammering heartbeat, realizing he couldn’t stomach losing his own child to the government for which he worked.

But now, with Bellamy and Octavia and Clarke, he found himself wondering what he’d missed. Not that he wished he’d settled down with someone from another district – it was clear to him now that a fraction of his soul had always belonged to Abigail Griffin – but he hadn’t had the idyllic family life she shared with Jake, or that Miller shared with his wife and son. Occasionally, he wondered if that hole in his life would never be filled.

But then he looked at Octavia, and wondered if there’d been a hole in the first place.

“You know,” he said after a long pause, “the blood for the transfusion didn’t come from one of the Capitol’s donors. Abby didn’t have any that were compatible with your type.”

Octavia frowned.

“Then who donated for me? Bellamy?”

Marcus shook his head, surprised that the boy hadn’t told her.

“No,” he said, suddenly shy about revealing his sacrifice. He’d only meant to comfort her by letting her know Capitol blood didn’t run through her veins; he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize that meant telling her his did.

Thankfully, she seemed to arrive at that conclusion herself.

“You,” she said softly, and he nodded. Octavia was quiet for a long moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was unsteady.

“Thank you, Kane,” she whispered, reaching out her tiny hand for him to hold. He held it lightly, as though it were a bird with an injured wing, and the tears he glimpsed in her eyes drew forth a few from his own. 

* * *

Marcus found Bellamy on Abby’s porch, sitting on the highest of the wooden stairs leading into her home. He paused for a moment before sitting down, surprised that the boy hadn’t heard him open and close the door. Clearly, he was lost in thought. 

He decided to start the conversation the same way he started talking to Octavia, although he hoped for a better outcome.

“Are you all right?” he asked, and the dark-haired boy jumped. After conquering his initial surprise, he moved over on the stair for Marcus to sit beside him.

“I’m fine,” Bellamy answered gruffly, almost angrily. Marcus quite nearly put his head in his hands. So far, he wasn’t working any miracles where talking to the Blake siblings was concerned.

“What happened to Octavia wasn’t your fault,” Marcus said. Bellamy stared out across the gravel road to the unoccupied houses of the Victor’s Village, resting his chin in his hand.

“No, but I taught her how to hunt,” he said. “If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have been out there.”

On an impulse, Marcus reached out and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“She would’ve been out there, one way or another,” Marcus said. “She’s your sister. And in teaching her how to hunt, you gave her the skills to defend herself. Her injuries would have been worse if she couldn’t fight.”

“I guess,” Bellamy agreed glumly, still fixated on the empty house in front of them. The weather was cooling now, and Marcus wondered what happened to Bellamy’s jacket. If he wasn’t so concerned about the boy’s state of mind, he would have gone back into the house and brought it to him. Unless Bellamy felt he deserved the pain? That this was his penance for his sister’s injury?

“I almost lost her, Kane,” Bellamy said suddenly. “If not for you and Abby, she wouldn’t be here today. I should’ve been more responsible. I should’ve told her to stay behind-“

“It’s in the past now,” Marcus said, staring up at the blue sky littered with cottony clouds. An oddly cheerful day for such morose moods, he thought. “She’s going to be okay. You couldn’t have predicted what happened, and you did everything you could to help her.”

“No, that was you,” Bellamy argued. “You knew to bring her here, and you donated blood for her. I didn’t do anything.”

“No, you’re the one who brought her to me,” Marcus retorted, trying to make his companion see reason. “I wouldn’t have been able to do either of those things if you hadn’t.”

Bellamy glanced his way briefly, but didn’t hold eye contact.

“If she hadn’t needed it, I wouldn’t have asked you to bring her,” Bellamy said. “I hate owing people.”

Confused, Marcus turned his head to talk directly to the boy.

“Abby won’t ask you to pay,” he said. “She doesn’t charge any of her patients. The Griffin's don’t need the money.”

“I’m not talking about money,” Bellamy said, brown eyes wide. “She saved my sister, Kane. I owe her a debt now, too, and I already owe Clarke.”

The pieces of their earlier conversations surrounding the Griffins slowly began to fit together, forming a completed picture of Bellamy’s hesitance.

_I_ _knew Clarke._

_We weren’t friends._

_I hate owing people._

“I’m sure Clarke doesn’t expect anything from you,” Marcus said, trying to make the best of the situation with what little he had to go off of. “She’d be happy her mom was able to help. And if she were here, she would have helped, too.”

Bellamy shook his head.

“Right after our mom died, O and I were starving,” he said, launching into a story Marcus hadn’t wanted to ask about for fear of making him uncomfortable. “I went into the woods every day to try to catch something, but nothing was working. Until one day, I saw Clarke in the woods. It was just her and her basket of herbs.”

Marcus nodded, picturing the scene vividly.

“I knew enough about Clarke Griffin to know she was rich,” Bellamy said, his voice taking on a wistful quality Marcus had never heard from him before. “I knew by 12’s standards, she was a princess. Whatever she was collecting, it had to be worth something, and I could sell it at the Hob. So I snuck up behind her, grabbed the bag, and ran off.”

Bellamy paused for a laugh and a smile, dropping his chin to his chest for a second or two.

“I didn’t make it twenty feet before she tackled me. She had me pinned to the ground and tried to grab the bag from my hands, but I held on. Before either of us really knew what was happening, it was raining herbs on us both.”

Now Marcus was laughing too, imagining the younger versions of the kids entangled in an unexpected brawl with an awkward outcome.

“She yelled at me for a few minutes about how she wasn’t going to be able to find more of them, and I yelled back at her. I must have let something slip about our problem, because she backed off and let me get on my feet.

“She told me that if I’d been honest with her, she would’ve let me have the herbs,” Bellamy said. “But she promised to come back later that night with some food for us – just enough for a week, so her parents wouldn’t know it was missing – and a few hours later, O and I had the first real food we’d had in weeks.”

They let silence speak for them for a few moments, paying tribute to the story of a girl in an arena thousands of miles away. But there was something poetic, Marcus thought, in telling stories about Clarke. When Bellamy or Abby talked about her he could see her as she’d been in the district and not as she was in the Games; he saw a girl with a wide smile, glimmering blue eyes, and hair as gold as the sun.

“So I owe her,” Bellamy said, his voice hollow, his gaze empty. “I’ve owed her for years, and I don’t know how to repay that debt. And if she doesn’t come back, I won’t get the chance.”

“Bellamy, listen to me,” Marcus said as the boy turned toward him again, hoping his low tone of voice sounded comforting and not threatening. “Clarke doesn’t think you owe her anything, and neither does Abby.”

“Okay,” Bellamy said flatly. Marcus inferred his insistence of Bellamy’s freedom from debt had done little good. “Whatever you say, Kane.”

Marcus began getting to his feet to go back inside the house, convinced he wouldn’t be able to make any headway with Bellamy, when the boy said something that stopped him in his tracks.

“What’s going on between you and her, anyway? Abby, I mean.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows, his stomach suddenly beginning to churn.

“Who said there was anything going on?”

Bellamy laughed, and Marcus was relieved to find a flicker of joy in his dark eyes.

“If that’s the way you want to be, fine,” he said, teasing. “But what I heard this morning didn't sound like nothing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED IT, BECAUSE IT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITE CHAPTERS! If you're having feelings like I did when I went back and edited today, feel free to leave me a comment or a kudos. A little goes a long way. :D


	21. Surprises

The day brought hope and the night brought terror.

It was only Clarke and Ontari now – the final two competitors – and although Abby tried to mask her trepidation, she could tell it was bleeding through her calm façade. She couldn’t help but be thankful it was Saturday – unless there was a dire emergency, she wouldn’t be seeing patients today. As it turned out, perhaps patients would have been a welcome distraction.

When she washed dishes, she thought about Clarke.

When she checked on Octavia, she thought about Clarke.

When she talked to Bellamy, she thought about Clarke.

The only time her brain wasn’t wholeheartedly focused on spinning in orbit around her daughter was when she was with Marcus: even his presence in a room was enough to calm her racing heartbeat. He helped her with various small tasks throughout the day, dividing his time between the kids and her, making sure they were all getting everything they needed. But what they needed, she found, varied wildly.

Octavia needed medicine and rest. Bellamy needed consolation. And she wasn’t sure what she needed, what would uncoil the knot of panic that tied itself tighter and tighter in her stomach as each hour passed. She’d been able to joke with him, to flirt with him, to _kiss_ him, this morning. Now, she could barely talk.

Dimly, she remembered inviting Raven over to watch the finale. The mechanic wouldn’t have been alone anyway – she had Sinclair and Jackson – but Clarke was her best friend, and Abby felt this was something she should go through with someone who cared about the girl on the screen as much as she did.

The night darkened, the sun faded, and Abby looked at the clock. A half hour. A half hour until the Capitol logo flashed on her screen. A half hour until the announcers babbled their trite drivel, all blue hair and sequined suits and phony empathy. A half hour until she might lose Clarke forever.

She ran to the bathroom and threw up, fearful thoughts apparently having taken hold of her stomach. She hadn’t eaten anything during the day – she hadn’t even been hungry – so as she parted her lips and gagged, eyes watering, nothing came up. But the sounds were the same, the effect was the same, and her eyes shone with tears and exhaustion and an emotional turmoil she hadn’t felt for over a year.

_I can’t lose you, too._

But Ontari was strong, Ontari had trained for this. She was taller than Clarke, more skilled than Clarke, and had arrogance to spare. No one had put so much as a scratch on her during the Games. And now, with all of Panem watching, Clarke would face her directly.

“Abby!” she heard someone shout, throwing open the bathroom door and kneeling by her side, fingers closing gently around her trembling shoulder. _Marcus._

“I’m fine,” she sniffled, swallowing a mess of tears that hadn’t yet fallen.

“You’re not,” he argued, but there was no edge to his tone. He raised a hand to tilt her head in his direction until their gazes locked, and she was disarmed by the concern she sensed there.

In spite of what they’d shared this morning, this was something she was getting used to. Something she was growing into, something she wanted to be able to cherish with her whole heart but Clarke had part of it and if she didn’t come back that part of her soul would perish.

“She’s strong,” Marcus reassured her, offering her his hand to help her stand. “Ontari underestimates her, and that’ll work to her advantage. This isn’t just about brute strength, Abby. At this point it’s more a mental game than a physical one, and Clarke’s smarter.”

His voice wavered, and she could tell he was just as worried as she was. But she took his hand and struggled to her feet, dusting off her pants as if they’d been covered in dirt, a reflexive action to give herself something to do while waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Then she wrapped her arms around him, holding him as close as she could, doing her best to turn her mind off. His heartbeat thudded beneath his shirt, picked up speed at her proximity, but Marcus didn’t seem nervous. After all, they were past that now: they were past tiptoeing around this thing between them, stepping around it gingerly as though exploring it might be fatal to them both. So instead of hesitating and stiffening, Marcus held her in return, wrapping his arms around her just as tightly as the fragile lights in the bathroom flickered.

She didn’t know how long they stood there, lost in each other’s embrace, breathing in sync and matching their heartbeats. The setting was different, but she realized this was almost exactly the same as the hug they shared in the woods. Everything and nothing had changed. Clarke was still in the Games, but this was the last night. She still clutched him tightly, as if he were keeping her afloat in a sea of sorrow, as if in his arms he had built a world of peace and perfection where the government was just and the world was fair and somehow, against all odds, they were both happy. But he had kissed her and she had kissed him back and right now, she needed him and this and whatever they were to each other more than anything else in the world, save her daughter’s safety.

He pressed a chaste kiss to the crown of her head, bringing one hand forward to cup her chin and another to hold her own.

“She’s going to make it,” he said.

Abby, still battling for dominance over a lump in her throat, could only nod.

But ‘making it’ was one thing, survival afterward another. She’d realized after talking to Becca that there were flaws with her plan: if Clarke won, moving to Thirteen wouldn’t be a viable option. The Capitol would want to send news crews to Twelve to cover Clarke’s daily life, to tour her home, to invade her privacy and drag her out on the ghastly Victory Tour. Her daughter could win, but she’d never really be free.

The doorbell rang, and Abby pulled away slowly, the real world intruding and sending ice through the warmth in her veins.

“Raven’s here,” she said, her gaze turning sympathetic. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to the girl about the latest development in their relationship, and she had a feeling that she’d take her nervousness for Clarke out in anger at Marcus Kane.

“Oh,” he said, his face falling. “Raven. Does she think we’re still angry at each other?”

“I’ll talk to her,” Abby volunteered. “She’ll understand once I explain.”

And so she turned away from the one person who had the mysterious power to calm her nerves, her stomach churning again from the moment his fingers left her skin.

* * *

“So you’re saying that now, after drinking yourself stupid and stewing in your hatred for a week, you and Kane kissed and made up? How the hell do you know he’s not just going to bail on you again?”

Abby winced, breaking eye contact as her guest sat in the chair next to hers in their living room. Raven wasn’t exactly taking this well – Abby hadn’t expected this discussion to go smoothly, of course – but she hadn’t anticipated the verbal fireworks show.

“He won’t,” she said. “Last time…it wasn’t up to him. He’s going against orders just to be here tonight.”

“If he’s going against his precious laws, why is he here in the first place?”

“Because he cares about Clarke!” Abby spat, nerves and simmering anger boiling over as she failed in her attempt to keep calm.

“That’s not what you said a week ago.”

“I didn’t have the full story a week ago, Raven. He didn’t want to leave me, but he didn’t have a choice. He saved Octavia’s life, he’s taking care of her and Bellamy-“

“Who the hell are Octavia and Bellamy?” Raven asked, scowling, and Abby remembered she had no knowledge of Marcus’ semi-adoptive teenagers.

“I can introduce you later,” she said. “They’re orphans, and Marcus is thinking of taking them in if he can.”

“Wow, adoption by Marcus Kane,” Raven remarked, examining her fingernails so she didn’t have to meet Abby’s gaze. “I think I’d rather be an orphan.”

“Raven,” Abby sighed, leaning back against the cushions of the couch. She was stressed enough already, and her stubborn refusal to accept Marcus’ redemption was doing nothing for her nerves. “I can’t make you like him. But I do expect you to be civil, because he’s watching the Games with us tonight.”

“Great,” Raven said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why didn’t you just invite the whole damn district?”

Abby glimpsed something in the young mechanic’s eyes that wasn’t just hatred and rage: if she looked closely enough, she saw pain.

“I thought it was just going to be us,” she said, quieter, resigned. “Having Kane and these other people…it changes things.”

“No it doesn’t,” Abby insisted, and Raven raised her eyebrows. “They care about her, too. Nothing’s changed, Raven, except there’ll be a few more people rooting for your friend.”

Abby stole a quick glance at the clock. _Five minutes._

“So, do you think you can do it?” she asked. “Do you think you can deal with Marcus for one night?”

Raven shrugged.

“As long as he doesn’t sit in my chair, we’re fine,” she said with a shaky, uneven smile. “But if he breaks your heart again, his house is getting demolished by _several_ fallen trees and a land mine. Just so we’re clear.”

Abby smiled, returning her expression. “We’re clear,” she said, and stood to turn on the television. Marcus entered the room faster than she expected – she thought he might have been spending time with Octavia on the other side of the house – but clearly, he’d been closer than she thought.

She wondered how much of their conversation he heard as she turned around and took her seat on the couch. How important was it to him that Raven didn’t despise him wholeheartedly?

“Hello,” he said awkwardly, shifting a little in his seat, his shoulders tense.

“Yep,” she said.

Marcus was quiet.

Raven was quiet.

Abby was quiet.

Bellamy entered the room moments before the broadcast started, taking a seat at the room’s edge, quiet. Abby gave Marcus a look – he could come closer and sit in a chair that wasn’t falling apart – but Marcus just shrugged.

“He’ll do what he wants,” he whispered. “If he wanted to be over here, he’d be over here. You won’t be able to force him, Abb-”

“Bellamy,” she said, and the dark-haired boy made eye contact with her from across the room. “Come over here and sit with us.”

Next to her, she heard Marcus sigh.

“I’m okay over here,” the boy said. “But thank you.”

“Sure, you’re okay for now,” Raven joined in, surprising Marcus and Abby both. “But halfway through this thing your ass is going to go so numb you won’t be able to feel it. Trust me, I’ve sat there before. I suggest you sit over here, unless you’re hell-bent on torturing yourself.”

Bellamy looked from Abby to Marcus to Raven with an expression of concern, glancing down at the chair he’d just been told came with side effects, and moved to sit in the last empty standalone seat in the living room.

“Good choice,” Raven said. “I’m Raven Reyes, by the way. Assistant mechanic in the mines.”

“Bellamy Blake,” Bellamy stuttered, watching the screen instead of Raven. “Thanks for the advice.”

“Not a problem,” Raven said, as Marcus reached over to lace his fingers together with Abby’s. The coverage was seconds from beginning, and as much as she would’ve enjoyed the light banter between the kids she couldn’t focus on anything but her daughter and Marcus’ hand in hers.

“She’s going to be okay,” he inclined his head to whisper.

“She’s going to be okay,” Abby repeated, thinking that perhaps if she restated his words it would help her believe them.

It didn’t.

* * *

The Capitol, it appeared, had spared no expense with their finale.

Clarke had been chased through the rain and the forest by a pack of snarling feral dogs to the Cornucopia, barely able to find her way through the darkness as she stumbled over tree roots, slipped on wet leaves, choked on a smoke that appeared to have no source, weighed down by something in the pocket of her jacket.

“Are those dogs…” Raven started, trailing off. But Abby knew where her sentence had been going: they had the eyes of the tributes. Wells’ eyes.

In spite of her persistent anxiety, Abby took a moment to let herself feel something other than all-consuming nerves: her hatred for the Capitol. Doing that to the children who’d died was monstrous, a despicable evil she’d never understand.

A glance at Marcus told her he felt the same – his face was tinged green, and his hand had started to shake in hers. She knew how he was feeling. Because Marcus Kane wasn’t separating himself from what was playing out on the screen, wasn’t stepping back and looking at Marcus and The Capitol as two separate entities because he was a Peacekeeper.

“Hey,” she whispered, leaning over so her lips nearly brushed his ear. “That’s not you. It isn’t. You’re not one of them.”

He swallowed hard and held her hand a little tighter.

Clarke made it to the metal horn and jumped, slamming against it with a force that made Abby wince. She landed mostly on the top, pulled herself up as her fingers slipped on the smooth surface, barely staying out of the muttations’ jaws. For a moment she stood and caught her breath, staring in shocked horror at the snarling beasts below her. Abby could pinpoint the moment her eyes fell on Wells, because she gasped and turned away and –

“Clarke, look out!” Bellamy shouted, and suddenly her daughter had collapsed to the slippery surface of the Cornucopia, flat on her back as she found her opponent.

Ontari gave a laugh, muddled by rainwater and black blood that trickled from her nose. Clearly, she hadn’t had as easy of a go with the mutts.

“Daddy’s little girl,” she taunted, placing a foot on Clarke’s chest to hold her in place. She squirmed and cried out, but it was no use – the girl from District 1 was too strong. “I bet you thought you had this one, huh? Did your daddy tell you how to win?”

Clarke screamed, Abby screamed, and Marcus wrapped a protective arm around her in an attempt to shield her from what was happening on screen.

“He was wrong,” Ontari continued, pressing down harder on Clarke. “Your daddy should have taught you better. But he was from 12, right? So how much could he really have known? He won by chance. By luck. There’s a reason there aren’t any victors from that trash heap.”

Abby thought she heard a crack and whimpered, her vision blurring with tears as she fought to force air through her lungs. Clarke shrieked, her hands flying to Ontari’s foot and tugging, scratching, digging her nails in as tears ran down her face and mixed with the incessant rainfall.

“At least you’ll get to see him again,” Ontari drawled. “Really, you should be thanking me.”

The camera angle was focused on Ontari’s face, so Marcus pulled Abby close, letting her sob into his shoulder as he kept his attention fixed on the screen. The camera angle was focused on Ontari’s face, so Raven hid her head in her hands. The camera angle was focused on Ontari’s face, so Bellamy clenched his jaw and prepared for the weight of owing a debt he’d never be able to repay to settle on his shoulders and sit there for the rest of his days.

The camera angle was focused on Ontari’s face, so none of them watched as Clarke slowly moving a trembling hand to reach into her pocket, pulling out a rock she’d taken from the cave where she lived with Wells.

“Say goodbye, diamond girl,” she snarled. “Guess you were really just coal after all.”

Then she raised her foot, preparing to deliver a kick that would propel Clarke into the pack of mutts, but Clarke was faster, Clarke closed her fingers around her makeshift weapon and swung for dear life, she swung with every ounce of strength left in her, she swung for her father and her mom and everyone she loved, and a sickening _crack_ filtered through the speakers on Abby’s television as Ontari’s ankle gave out and she toppled and rolled and landed on the ground with a bloodcurdling scream.

Abby raised her head, one thought shining through the storm of despair, one she felt almost guilty in thinking.

_That’s not her scream. Clarke doesn’t scream like that._

And Clarke, clutching her chest and fighting to breathe, put her hands over her ears to block out the noises and the sobbing and the horror of everything she’d just been through. But it ended, as nightmares always did, and soon the mutts were gone and Ontari was gone and the cannon sounded.

And Clarke Griffin was the victor of the 74th annual Hunger Games.

“Oh my God,” Raven whispered, the first to talk after a prolonged, disbelieving silence. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!”

Abby froze, staring at the screen, rigid in Marcus’ arms. Was this a dream? Could it be a dream? Her nightmares always ended differently. Clarke didn’t win. Marcus wasn’t biting back tears beside her. Raven wasn’t cheering. Hell, Bellamy didn’t exist, and he certainly wasn’t smiling at the screen as if it had given he and his sister all the money in the world.

No, she thought under the dim candlelight as she leaned into Marcus’ arms, too spent and overcome with relief and joy and a thousand other emotions to celebrate.

No, this was real.

* * *

The next day was a flurry of emotion and congratulations and tears for Abby Griffin. The Capitol had declared that the people of District 12 would receive the next three days off of work to celebrate their victor’s achievement, so Raven spent a disproportionate amount of time at her house talking to Bellamy and introducing herself to Octavia. Jackson came by a few times to offer his congratulations and talk, and Sinclair accompanied him. Even Jaha showed his face, if briefly, forcing Marcus to hide during the duration of his visit.

They all watched Clarke’s victory interview together, basking in how radiant she looked. Her stylist had outdone himself this time, dressing her in a floor-length sheer gown layered with crushed diamonds that glowed every color of the rainbow under the bright lights of the stage.

And Abby cried, and Marcus held her, and when Raven left and Bellamy went to sleep they kissed and they kissed and they kissed, as if each other’s lips were oxygen. She kissed him in the living room, on the couch she’d come to view as theirs. She kissed him in the hallway, right before he said goodnight to Bellamy and Octavia. She kissed him in her bed, after inviting him to stay the night (an invitation he accepted with much blushing and stuttering).

“I told you,” he whispered as they lay beneath the sheets together, still too exhausted to do anything but capture each other’s lips with their own and slip gently into dreamless unconsciousness. “I told you she’d be okay.”

Abby shifted closer to him, breathing in his musky scent as she rested her forehead against his and stroked the side of his face. Her heart felt too big for her chest, as if it would explode at any moment, finally singing in harmony with her head to make her certain that this was what she wanted. She wanted Marcus Kane by her side. Always.

“I know,” she said. “You were right.”

He gasped in playful shock, and she slapped him gently on the shoulder.

“Abby Griffin, admitting I was right? I must have misheard you. There’s no way-“

She stopped his words with a soft kiss, losing herself in the way his eyes twinkled when she leaned away again.

“Don’t get used to it,” she said.

* * *

Abby allowed Marcus to lead her through the fence and deep into the woods, taking joy in the chirping of the birds and his hand in hers. He hadn’t been beside her when she awoke in the morning, which terrified and confused her until she read the note he left on her nightstand.

_Dear Abby,_

_Since the interviews are over and Clarke won’t be home until tomorrow, I have a surprise planned for us. You don’t have to wear or do anything special, but I’ll be back at eleven to come and get you. I already spoke to Jackson and he said he can handle any patients you might have, so please don’t argue with me._

_Love,_

_Marcus_

He'd covered every single excuse she might have, so she didn't have a foundation for an argument. But more than that, she wasn't sure she wanted one. Times like this - where there was nothing to do, no crisis to which to attend - were quite rare, and she wanted to make the most of this one before it slipped away. Making the most of it, undoubtedly, would be spending this day with Marcus. 

So three hours later, she walked through the woods of District 12 with a flurry of questions her companion apparently deemed himself unable to answer.

“Where are we going?” she asked

Silence.

“Can you at least give me a hint?”

Silence.

“Are we traveling somewhere?”

Silence.

“If we’re traveling somewhere, we should have taken the train.”

Silence.

“For the love of God, Marcus. Say  _something_.”

He paused to grin at her, and his smile could’ve provided electricity to Twelve for a week. Sunlight shimmered on his chocolate-brown hair and his slightly reddened cheeks, catching silver streaks and forehead lines. Somehow, the exposure made him appear even more youthful than his expression, his excitement and the sunlight combining to make him appear to glow. How could she have ever thought he was heartless, when in every centimeter of him lived a love so powerful it defied duty, District, circumstance, law, and time? 

“If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise,” he said, and, the moment sufficiently shattered, Abby rolled her eyes.

“I’m not a fan of surprises,” she muttered.

“You’ll enjoy this one,” he said, walking again, glancing back at her with a smile. “Trust me.”

It wasn’t a matter of trusting him – she’d trust Marcus Kane with her life – but it had been a long, _long_ time since she’d been this far into the woods. She guessed Marcus would probably know for certain, given that he'd have been deeper into the woods on Peacekeeper assignments, but she couldn't help wondering if it was safe. What the hell was worth wandering this far into the woods for?

Marcus came to a sudden stop in front of her, and lost in thought, she nearly crashed into him.

“We’re here, Abby,” he said. “Look.”

_Oh._

The woods opened into an expansive green meadow, littered with daisies, sunflowers, and daffodils, peppered with flowers so bright she wondered if they'd been engineered by the Capitol. And in the distance sat the most beautiful lake she’d ever seen – a crystal-clear pool of water surrounded by cattails and vibrant green grass. The sunlight danced on the rippling waves, reflecting the deep blue sky and painting an image of the forest all its own, rivaled only by Clarke's sketches in beauty.

Then she looked harder, a little farther away in the meadow, and her eyes filled with tears.

Marcus had set up a light blue blanket in the middle of the grass, on top of which rested a woven basket of food. Abby squinted a little harder and thought she could even make out a bottle of red wine and a pair of wine glasses.

She turned to him with vision blurred, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. Logically, she’d known how Marcus felt about her; if she thought about it, his feelings had been apparent for a few months. But times like this, with the sun shining and a warm breeze ruffling her hair on what was likely to be the last warm day of the fall, her own feelings snuck up on her.

He noticed her discreetly trying to wipe her eyes, overcome with emotion, and wrapped her in his arms.

“Congratulations, Abby,” he whispered with his lips against her sun-warmed hair. “She’s coming home.”

Abby breathed him in, nuzzling his neck as the forest teemed with life around them. For so long, she hadn’t been able to devote all of herself to thinking about her future – about whatever future she might have with Marcus – because part of her heart was always with Clarke. Now that she was returning home and Becca had guaranteed her safety, Abby could allow herself to ponder what came next.

Clearly, whatever association she'd have with District 13 came next. Rebellion came next. But in Marcus Kane’s arms she let go of those futures and created a new one for both of them, together; one where Marcus didn’t have to go back to the Capitol; one where they could wake up together in the morning and fall asleep together at night and spend every waking moment in each other’s presence. An unattainable dream, and she knew it. But it was so beautiful, so alluring, and today she could pretend it was real.

Making every effort to ignore the insistent, irksome voice in her head that rudely announced they had only three days left before he’d have to leave, she withdrew herself from his embrace to meet his gaze. She wondered if it would ever stop disarming her, the sheer, unwavering affection in his eyes, in the way he touched her, the depth with which he cared. Most likely not, she thought. Not for a long, long time, certainly not for as long as they had together.

So she leaned up and kissed him, slow and long and deep, savoring each second as though it could be their last.

“You were right,” she whispered as they parted, resting her forehead against his. “I like this surprise.”


	22. Paradise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you guys know...the rating is jumping very, very, VERY much up to M this chapter. (This is also the first smut scene I ever wrote. Fun fact). Hope you enjoy! ;)

“Would you care for some wine, Doctor Griffin?” Marcus asked, playfully using her formal title as he poured a bottle of the Capitol’s finest Merlot. Abby couldn’t help thinking that even Raven wouldn’t be able to dislike him when he was like this: he exuded a unique energy, a vitality that she’d only seen in two other people, and his smile outshone the sun.

“I would indeed, Peacekeeper Kane,” she said with a wink, matching his lofty tone. He handed her a spotless glass, filled halfway, and she wondered how he managed to get all of this out here. Sure, his house was in the woods, but it must have taken some time to set up, and then to go and get her and bring her here and…

If she thought any more about it, she’d start crying. So, wine in hand, she watched as he extracted their lunch from the basket. It wasn’t quite in step with the Capitol’s extravagance – sandwiches on croissant rolls and grapes she hadn’t yet touched - but it made no difference to her. She could’ve been eating plain bread and it would’ve tasted like her favorite sourdough, just because Marcus was by her side.

Before beginning their meal, Marcus raised his glass.

“To Clarke,” he said. 

“To Clarke,” Abby said, and their glasses collided with a sweet _clink_.

Her daughter wouldn’t be home until tomorrow, but Abby was counting down each and every second. She had only been gone a month, but she might as well have been absent for a year: scarcely a second went by during that time when she wasn’t thinking about the person she loved most.

Clarke’s return brought forth both anticipation and anxiety. The relief she’d feel when she could once again hold her daughter in her arms, kiss her forehead, hear her voice…even the thought was overwhelming. But what if she didn’t agree with joining the rebellion? It wasn’t likely, Abby knew, but what if the Games had changed her?

What if after all that fighting, Clarke just wanted peace?

Abby raised the glass to her lips and drank, the smooth bitterness warming her throat on the way down. Marcus, being Marcus, could tell she was thinking about something.

“Are you all right?” he asked, moving the basket so he could sit next to her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get us anything more extravagant. The Capitol stopped sending me food after Jaha told them about the kids.”

Abby stared out across the lake at the imposingly tall mountains, wondering if the wilderness could set she and Marcus free. If they built a home on the side of a mountain far from here – somewhere the Capitol’s gaze didn’t see – could they finally be happy? Would every day be just like this one, with hand-holding and picnics and kisses and wine?

She sighed and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her to draw her closer.

“It’s not about the food, Marcus,” she said as his hand moved up and down her arm. “I’m just…worried.”

They could never take off and live in the woods. Maybe if they only had Clarke and the Blakes, but there was no way in hell Raven Reyes would let Abby Griffin leave the district without tagging along. And if Raven left, so would Sinclair. So would Jackson. And before long, half of 12 would accompany she and Marcus on their expedition for peaceful solitude.

The Capitol would have no trouble locating a group of that size.

Back to her dream, then. Her beautiful, vibrant, ghostlike dream.

“You can talk to me about it,” Marcus said. “If you want.”

As much as she appreciated his efforts, as much as she adored the taste of the wine and the buttery croissants and the soft blanket beneath them, Abby didn’t need any of those things. Wine, croissants, blankets; they’d all be around once Marcus left. But this _time_ , these sweet, slippery seconds, were breezing past them like the winds of a hurricane.

Abby snuggled closer to him, reaching over to hold the hand that wasn’t resting on her opposite arm. He was so warm, so inviting, and her muscles relaxed at their proximity even if her mind didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I’m ruining our picnic.”

“Abby,” he said, stroking the knuckles on her hand with his calloused thumb. “Your daughter just won the Games, but her fight isn’t over. You’re allowed to be upset for her. You’re allowed to be upset for Wells. You’ve been through a lot.”

Of course Marcus Kane wouldn’t realize Clarke contributed to only fifty percent of her mood, and the other half was related to him. But Marcus Kane wouldn’t acknowledge that, he wouldn’t realize it, because that would require him to consider his own importance in her life. For him to take a step back and think, just for a second, about how deeply she cared for him. He’d never been good at that.

“The Games changed Jake,” Abby said, losing herself in memories to forget the future.

“I know,” Marcus said.

Abby shook her head. “You didn’t know everything,” she said. “He had horrible nightmares for years. I tried every mix of herbs I could think of to help him sleep, but nothing worked. And every year he’d leave to mentor the tributes, and I’d be worried sick about him. Every year, it got worse. Then when Clarke came along things got better, but for the longest time…”

Her voice broke abruptly, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

“You were scared you were going to lose him,” Marcus said. “That he’d become someone else.”

Abby, frozen with emotion, couldn’t find the words to agree.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Marcus asked softly, rubbing her back. “That Clarke won’t be the same when she gets home?”

“I’m worried the Capitol is going to try to change her,” Abby said. “She’s the daughter of a victor, and they won’t ignore that. She’s already their diamond.”

Marcus snorted. “Because in the Capitol, if you push hard enough on coal it turns to diamonds.”

He sounded so much like the boy she’d grown up with, the boy who brought her books and pretended to be her patient and helped her study for tests. Abby Griffin didn’t believe in miracles – no matter how many times Vera Kane told her they were real – but then Clarke won her Games. Marcus had become the friend she needed, then the man she couldn’t live without.

Sometimes it was hard to put everything on random chance.

“If there’s one thing I’m not worried about, it’s the Capitol changing Clarke,” Marcus said. “She’s too strong. Whatever they’ll try to do to her, she’ll resist. She’s one of the strongest people I’ve met. And she'll always be your daughter.”

 

Her composure had been on thin ice before, but with the pressure of his mouth on her skin, it fell beneath the surface. She had to tell him, before it froze her from the inside out.

“I can’t lose you to them, either,” Abby blurted, tired of holding in the other words that made her sick to her stomach. “And I can’t stop thinking about how little time we have left. How it’s passing, even right now, we can’t get this ba-“

Marcus halted her words with a kiss, running his fingers through her hair. Abby opened to him without realizing it, suddenly tasting red wine, wanting to be as close to him as she could for as long as they had. If everything between them was damned to end, she wanted to live every last second to its fullest. 

“You won’t,” he whispered against her lips as they broke apart, panting to catch their breath. “You’re not going to lose me. No matter how far apart we are.”

He broke away too soon and she followed him, hoping to reignite their connection, but he turned his head. The whimper that escaped her made her sound like a desperate teenager, but she didn’t care. She needed him, more than ever before.

“We have to finish this,” he said while gesturing to the food, a note of amusement in his voice. _That smug little asshole._ He knew exactly what he was doing. “If it stays out here much longer, it’ll spoil.”

Abby glared at him. _Now he cares about the food._ He gave her a sympathetic glance, shoving a few grapes into his mouth and promising they’d pick up where they left off later.

‘Later’ wasn’t soon enough for Abby. Two, she thought, could play at this game.

“These are wonderful,” he said, shoving a few more into his mouth. “You should really try some.”

“I don’t remember the last time I had grapes,” she said, feigning genuine excitement. “We don’t get them very often here.”

“Here, then,” Marcus said, offering her a towering handful of them, green and purple and perfect for what she had in mind. “You can have the rest.”

Inwardly, she rolled her eyes. If he knew what was coming…but she couldn’t let it show. So calmly, innocently, she accepted his offer and took the bundle of fruit into her hands. Selecting the largest, juiciest grape, she plunged it into her mouth and bit down, letting the sweet juice electrify her taste buds.

Then, closing her eyes for the full effect, she let out a long, loud, _sensual_ moan.

Marcus, being the clueless idiot she knew he was, didn’t catch on right away. Abby cracked open one eyelid to check if her technique was effective – and nearly screamed. He was continuing to eat his sandwich, staring pointedly out across the lake at the scenery in the distance. It was as if she hadn’t made a sound.

_Damn you, Marcus Kane._

She’d have to try a bit harder.

Strengthening her resolve, she plopped a few more of the fruits into her mouth and repeated the process, doing her best to mimic the sounds she’d made only a day ago with him on the couch. It wasn’t easy – imagining him stroking her and kissing her could never come close to the real thing – but it was a start.

And hopefully it would get something _started_.

It took a total of five more grapes for Marcus to even glance in her direction, but when he did she noticed his expression was pained, his posture oddly stiff.

“Abby, please stop that,” he said, and she smirked when she saw the telltale bulge in his pants. Oh, he’d noticed her before. He just hadn’t said anything.

“Stop what?” she asked, doing her best to sound bored and unaffected. “I’m eating, Marcus. You said we had to finish the food.”

“What you’re doing...isn’t because of the grapes,” he growled, and Abby tilted her chin down to make sure he couldn’t see her grinning. It was all she could do to swallow back the laugh bubbling up her throat.

“No, you were right. They’re very good.”

As if to prove her own point she picked up the last one and popped it in her mouth, letting out a soft, breathy sigh after she swallowed.

Abby would be the first to admit she’d fallen out of practice in the art of seduction – twenty two years of marriage would do that to almost anyone, she figured – but Marcus didn’t seem to agree. He fixed her with a look that could’ve melted ice, and as she stared back at him she noticed how dilated his pupils had become.

His frustration would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t so endearing.

But Abby wasn’t laughing when he leaned across the blanket and began kissing her, starting just above her collarbone. His lips were soft, enticing, as warm as the sun that shone overhead. A shiver ran down her spine as he found her pulse point, and she couldn’t stop herself from letting out a tiny gasp. She felt him smile against her skin, spurred on by her reaction, and Abby closed her eyes as the world started blurring into a pleasure-laden haze.

He peppered kisses up her jawline, going slowly enough to allow her to savor each and every sensation like the sweet, tart juice from the grapes. After all, they were in no danger of being discovered here. Bellamy and Octavia were at her house. Raven didn’t go into the woods, and Jackson believed too heavily in the rules to step a toe outside the fences. Out here it was just her and Marcus, building their temporary heaven on a blanket by the lake.

Sadness threatened to overwhelm her as his lips found her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Because this moment was just that – a moment, a flicker in the everlasting candles that composed their separate lives – and nothing, it seemed, could keep it from melting.

Then his lips connected with hers, insistent, hungry, and she decided to stop _thinking_.

Every bit as desperate for this as he was, she broke their contact for just long enough to shed her shirt and Jake’s ring. Logically, she knew she should’ve quickly folded it and put it somewhere she could find it again afterward – that was what she’d always done before - but that would have implied that there _was_ an afterward. That at some point, this would end, they’d go back to Twelve, and he’d either stay and be distant or leave and be even farther away from her.

So Abby tossed her shirt into the gentle breeze and placed Jake’s ring on the blanket. She shimmied out of her pants, trailing both hands up his back to thread them in his hair and draw him to her again, savoring the gentle scratch of his beard and the searing pressure of his mouth. He was still wearing his clothes, something they’d have to remedy later, but right now she didn’t care. Right now she needed him desperately, achingly, and with every hitch of her breath and every sigh her desire was set aflame.

He tasted sweet, like the grapes they’d both only minutes earlier consumed, but there was something about that taste that wasn’t a remnant of fruit or wine or anything the wicker basket had to offer. There was something that was just him – just Marcus – and she craved it as badly as the chocolate he’d given her weeks ago.

Through the pounding of blood rushing in her ears and the songs of the birds, she heard him give a soft moan. His touch was light although his fingers were rough, hardened from years of doing the Capitol’s dirty work. But the sensation, while new, wasn’t unpleasant; the combination of his mouth and his fingers, resting on her bare back, was enough to make her dizzy.

Then he pulled away abruptly with a startled gasp, retreating as if she’d burned him, and she froze.

“Marcus?” she said, breathing heavily, trying to clear her head of the pleasure-induced fog.

“Your scars,” he whispered on a single breath, leaning back as though repelled through a polarized force. “They’re my fault. Abby, I’m so-“

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry,” she responded, moving closer and enclosing one of his hands with both of hers. It broke her heart to feel him trembling, to see the regret and despair etched into his expression. She hated the Capitol for so many reasons; what they’d done to Jake, what they forced Clarke to do, what they forced her to do.

Now she added another entry to her ever-growing list: she hated the Capitol for what they forced Marcus to do.

“Why?” he asked, the depths of his brown eyes ripe with repulsion at the memory.

“Because that wasn’t you,” she said firmly, wrapping a hand around his wrist to place his hand on her back again. He winced as his fingers made contact with the lattice of scar tissue. She didn’t let go. “You were given orders, Marcus. You shouldn’t have to apologize for something you were forced to do.”

“That doesn’t excuse it,” he said, dropping his hand from her skin and his gaze to the blue blanket beneath them. “If I could go back and stop it from happening, if I could take them away from you, I would.”

“Hey,” Abby whispered. A lump had begun forming in her throat, and as she spoke it became more and more difficult to swallow. “Marcus. Marcus, look at me.”

He obeyed, raising his gaze to meet hers.

“I don’t regret these scars,” she said, taking his hand again. This time, he didn’t pull away. “I’m not in pain. And they’ll always remind me of you, of this, of _us_. Why would I want that to go away?”

He gaped at her, openmouthed, as if only really seeing her for the first time underneath the blanket of blue skies, to the accompaniment of the sweetest of birdsongs.

“To me, they’re just another way we’re connected,” she finished with an unexpected sniffle, hating herself with every tear that dropped down her cheeks and hooked on the edge of her nose. Marcus raised a shaking hand to wipe them away, and she leaned into his touch. Figuring the second time might be the charm, she once again took his other hand in both of hers and positioned it on her lower back, on top of a scar that meant both nothing and everything to her.

This time, he didn’t pull away.

Desperate to be close to him again, she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his, letting her eyes slide shut at the sensation of his radiant warmth.

“I want you,” she said, sliding her hands up his arms, resting them on his shoulders for a brief moment, up his neck and into his hair again. “Nothing in our past is going to change that.”

She felt him inhale sharply under her touch, the sandpaper sensation of his skin as his fingers trailed up and down her back and acclimated to the scars that lay dormant there. Humming at the feeling of skin brushing skin, she opened her eyes to see his shining with tears.

“I…” he started. “Abby, I’ve never felt this way before. About anyone. I thought this was something I didn’t get to have, that after all my years with the Capitol, that was a fitting punishment.”

She opened her mouth to argue with him – to say it didn’t matter what the Capitol forced him to do – but for once, he interrupted her.

“Now, I…” he started, swallowing hard as his voice shook. “I can’t imagine my life without you. I’m yours, Abby. For as long as you’ll have me.”

She smiled, tucking a few strands of dark brown hair behind his red-tipped ears.

“Then kiss me,” she said, resting one hand at the nape of his neck and the other in his hair, anchoring herself to him. “And this time, don’t sto-”

His mouth was on hers before the end of her sentence.

He kissed her with the desperation of a man starving, a man who’d been allowed to eat after a week in the wilderness. He kissed her like she was oxygen and he was floating in space. He kissed her like she was sunlight and he was in darkness.

She bit down lightly on his lower lip and heard him growl, felt the noise rumble in his chest as his fingers trailed down her bare back and left streaks of tingling heat in their wake. His tongue traced the length of her lower lip, asking for an entrance she yielded him almost instantly. She heard a soft moan, a quiet, desperate sound, and realized after a few moments it had come from _her_.

A warm, aching wetness began building between her thighs, and she was reminded that Marcus was, unfortunately, wearing too many clothes. So, with no small amount of difficulty, she broke away from his lips and began kissing her way down his neck. She slipped her hands underneath his shirt and registered him jump – he was ticklish, she’d have to remember that – but he soon relaxed, losing himself in the sensation of her lips on his skin.

“Abby,” he moaned as her mouth grazed the area just above his collarbone. “Abby, oh God.”

She flicked her tongue against him and grinned at the noises he made: noises that were animalistic, raw, and practically unhinged with need. She might have been the one to start this, but it was clear Marcus craved it just as much as she had. The sounds only fueled her desire, and she only broke apart from him to tear off his shirt, throwing it in the same general direction as her own.

She couldn’t stop kissing him, hot and wet and urgent, as she engaged in battle with the button on his pants. Clumsy fingers and an unspeakably difficult closure did nothing to ease her frustration, and he must have sensed her exasperation because the sound that came from him then wasn’t laden with desire – it was a laugh. But somehow, that single laugh meant more to her than all the sighs and groans combined.

She loved his laugh.

It was so light, so carefree, so unburdened: so unlike the man who first strode into her life with his polished leather jacket and tightly-laced boots and brought her whole world to a screeching halt. As she looked at him, pupils wide with want and eyes shining with genuine happiness, she felt a lump form in her throat and had to close her eyes to keep tears from falling.

“I can get it,” he whispered against her lips, and Abby surprised herself by giggling as their hands met near his waistband.

“Okay,” she agreed, leaning back just enough for him to do away with the burdensome garment. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him; the muscles that rippled every time he moved, his broad shoulders and toned chest. He wasn’t a perfectly sculpted Adonis - at the age of 42, who was? – but he was beautiful, alluring, and she vaguely thought she could stare at him all day until the sun bowed below the mountains, glancing at the trail of dark hair that led down to…

_Oh._

He hadn’t just taken off his pants.

Feeling a sudden rush of warmth surge to her cheeks, Abby wondered if her blush was obvious. She hadn’t expected him to be small, but he had somehow managed to exceed even the loftiest of her imaginings. Marcus noticed her appraisal and blushed, and for a few moments Abby felt like a teenager again, awkwardly wondering how best to proceed when things got to this point.

Marcus made that decision for her, asking a question to which she thought he might already know the answer.

“Are you okay with laying down?” he asked, and she almost laughed. How the hell else were they going to do this? Although she guessed they could find a tree somewhere…

“That’s fine,” she said with a smile, eager to get things moving. She was still wearing her bra and underwear, although she guessed (and hoped) they wouldn’t stay for much longer. Her entire body hummed with need, a craving only he could satisfy.

Abby lay down on the blanket, opening her thighs and motioning for Marcus to join her. She didn’t have to tell him twice: in an instant he was there, covering her tiny form with his own, pinning her to the velvety fleece and the soft green ground.

Then he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.

There were so many things to feel, so many sensations that deserved her focus, she felt her senses could barely keep up. The heat of his fingers against her back, brushing underneath her bra strap and unfastening the garment to toss it aside. The gentle scratching of his beard between the valley of her breasts. The heated strokes of his tongue, taking one nipple at a time and teasing it to a taut point. The pressure of his cock against her thigh, hardened and ready for her.

He slipped a few fingers inside her underwear, discovering how wet she already was for him. But those faded black panties needed to go, as soon as possible, although she wondered if he was delaying it just to be infuriating.

Impatient, Abby grabbed his hands and repositioned them from where they’d rested – at the base of her back, trailing up and down her spine - to the waist of her underwear.

“Would you like to do the honors?” she asked, kissing up his jawline, stroking him just enough to keep him on edge as his fingers fumbled with the fabric. She knew she wasn’t exactly making things easy for him, but then again he’d made her life hell for two months. _Payback._

But the tables turned as his efforts yielded success and he slowly slipped her waistband down to her ankles, cupping her ass and sliding a few fingers inside her to stroke her warm wetness. The world evaporated in a flash of light, and the only real, concrete thing in the universe was the man who was coming treacherously close to…

“Marcus!” she cried in a breathy sigh as he slid two fingers inside her, flicking against her, dancing around the throbbing center where she needed him most. His lips found the creamy swell of her breasts, an exquisite scratching of sandpaper smoothed down by the warmth of his tongue and the soft, insistent pressure of his lips, and her back arched as the dual sensations overtook her.

“Marcus, Marcus, _please_ , I-“ she begged him as he kissed his way down her toned stomach, his tongue swirling and his beard scratching and his fingers dancing and _oh, God_ , if he didn’t take her soon she’d come just from this.

Skipping over where she needed him most, he withdrew his fingers and pressed sandpaper kisses to the inside of her thighs. She made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a moan when his beard met the sensitive skin there, skin that hadn’t felt anything like this in over a year, and he paused.

“Are you okay?”

She nodded, breathless, dizzy.

“Jake never…had a beard,” she panted as he went back to his kisses, flicking against her with his tongue as he got closer and closer. “I’ve never – _oh, God, Marcus_ – felt anything like this…”

He circled around her center, tracing her folds with his tongue, his breath hot against her aching wetness. Her hips rose and fell, she whimpered, and just when she thought she might explode from the anticipation thrumming through her veins, he finally sank his mouth between her thighs and she couldn’t hold back a cry of pleasure.

Her body was a temple, and he offered himself to her in worship. She gasped for air as she tangled her fingers in his hair, faintly aware of the moans slipping through her lips as he drank her in. Every moan of satisfaction, every flick of his tongue and nip of his teeth against her clit pushed her closer to a sensory oblivion, edged her nearer to the climax building inside as she felt herself beginning to tremble.

With each passing second he grew bolder, the searing sensation of him approaching her aching, throbbing center.

Having abandoned almost all coherent language for a vocabulary of breathy gasps and sighs, she nearly screamed when he found it, the place she needed him most, the wet, hot place that sent zaps of tingling euphoria the length of her body and set every inch of her skin aflame and had been begging her for him from the moment they sat down.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped between hitched breaths, urging him on with those two words, the only two words bubbling through the haze of numbing pleasure, over and over and over again. “Don’t stop, Marcus, _please_ don’t stop.”

Faintly, flickering in a dim place at the back of her mind that hadn’t diverted its power to registering sensations, she realized he was smiling.

Then, without fanfare or warning, the storm of her orgasm crashed into her and she cried out, hips rising and falling against the sun-warmed blanket as she rode the sensation-soaked waves. It felt as though she’d merged with the sunlight, soaked into the blanket, as if her body was held together by nothing more than simmering heat and pulsing pleasure.

She came down gradually, her chest rattling as her breaths evened out and her skin stopped humming and her heart stopped pounding. But the fire hadn’t been quenched: it burned brighter than ever as he withdrew his tongue and she guided him back up to her mouth again.

This kiss wasn’t hesitant, like the first one on the couch; it wasn’t masked by sadness, like the one they shared only moments earlier; it was a collage of frantic desire and desperate want, painting brushstrokes of red and white and orange into the mural of their touches, their connections, the intimate moments they’d shared.

Abby tasted her own juices on his lips and couldn’t mask a tiny moan as her body nearly vibrated with electric elation. This was everything that had invaded her fantasies since the day she first saw him walking on the streets, the culmination of a handful of private moments when she’d slipped a finger between her thighs and imagined him, his voice, his touch, his kiss.

Her body had known she wanted this long before she consciously had.

But there was something she needed him to know, something that rested on the tip of her tongue and that he needed to hear.

“Marcus,” she whispered, “there’s something I need to tell you. I didn’t say it before, and I have to say it now.”

She underestimated how it would feel to eliminate that contact between them – for him to lean away, to lose the taste of him – it felt like losing a part of herself, and she nearly hated herself for pausing this. But when she opened her eyes to him, an alluring mess of disheveled hair and sparkling eyes and kiss-swollen lips, she knew it was the right thing to do.

“What?” he asked, resting his hand on the side of her face to trail his thumb along her cheekbone. “You can tell me anything.”

She took a deep breath to calm her racing heartbeat, then opened her mouth.

“I need you,” she said, pressing another lazy kiss to his lips while idly tracing patterns on the back of his neck. “I want you.” Another kiss, this time to his jawline. “I can’t imagine my life without you.” An open-mouthed kiss just below the bone of his sculpted jaw that drew forth a groan. “I’m yours.” A kiss to the hollow of his throat, ended with a flick of her tongue and the repetition of his words as their gazes locked. “I’m yours, Marcus. For as long as you’ll have me.”

Then she reached down and guided him inside of her.

Her mouth opened in a tiny ‘o’ as her eyes widened, as she heard Marcus let out a deep, guttural moan.

“Oh, Abby,” he murmured, his voice laden with adoration and lust and another emotion she thought she could put a name to but _oh_ , her brain wasn’t working that way right now and she couldn’t bother trying when he kept saying her name, undoing her further with every repetition. “Abby, Abby, _Abby_.”

They could have been doing this for two months, she thought. Two whole months. If only they’d gotten over their past sooner, if they hadn’t tried to make things more difficult for each other, if Clarke hadn’t been reaped. They could have spent every night for two months like this, tangled up in each other, the lines of their bodies blurring as he sank deeper inside of her and pressed warm kisses to her neck as she whimpered and trembled and gasped.

What the hell had they been doing?

He stared at her for a long moment as she savored the way he felt, the way he filled her, fitting perfectly inside like fingers in a glove. But it wasn’t enough, not yet – he was holding back, and Abby intended to change that.

“More,” she whispered, her hands clutching at wildly his back as she spoke between open-mouthed kisses and sighs. “Please, Marcus. I need all of you.”

So he slid deeper inside of her, giving her everything while his lips found the hollow of her throat, and she was lost now, lost to the way it felt to have him buried in her to the hilt, lost in the sheer unbridled pleasure of feeling him reach the deepest place inside her, lost to the way his lips traveled to the valley between her breasts and traced along them until they were taut points, lost to the way his hands tangled in her hair and traveled down her side to cup the side of her ass and stroke her thighs.

“You feel so good, Abby,” he murmured against her neck, and she trailed one hand from his shoulder and down his neck, cupping his chin to draw his lips back to hers. He somehow still tasted like red wine, and the ghost of alcohol in his mouth electrified her. She had always loved red wine, loved the taste, loved the scent, but she’d never adore it quite as deeply now when it came from a glass. It wouldn’t be the same.

Their kisses grew sloppier as their pleasure mounted, and Abby felt herself approaching her second orgasm of the day as he continued to thrust into her with a series of quiet, guttural moans that he disguised by alternating between burying his face in her neck and kissing her.

She wasn’t the only one panting, breathing in short, shallow gasps; it was apparent from the stuttering, erratic rhythm of his hips and the tension in every muscle of his body that he was dangerously close, too.

Then his fingers found the folds of her clit, stroking with a clumsy precision where their bodies joined, and she cried out at the triple sensation of his lips on her neck and his thumb stroking her and his cock inside her, still thrusting against her warm wetness.

A loud cry escaped her as she came, her back arching and convulsing as the burning friction at her core and the pressure of his lips sent her over the edge. Stars exploded behind her eyelids as she dug her fingernails into his back.

Marcus followed only a few heartbeats behind, his climax arriving with an animalistic groan that made her go hot and cold all over. He continued to press into her and withdraw as the waves crashed over him, whispering her name like a prayer as his hips bucked and shuddered.

“I’m right here,” she whispered, tangling her fingers in his hair as she trailed her tongue along his neck and he burst, spilling over inside her. “I’m here.”

Then, at last spent, he collapsed into her arms with a sigh.

For a long time they held each other, burning each detail of the other person into their memory. Abby needed to remember him like this, staring at her like she was the sun, like she was the only light in his world. Feeling him soften inside her, she trailed her fingers up and down the side of his face, brushing hair out of his eyes.

The brownest eyes she’d ever seen. Eyes as brown as the trunks of the trees, as the color of soil. Eyes she could get lost in and never find her way back, never return to the real world, but it didn’t matter: in them, she was home.

Marcus was the first one to talk, sliding out of her smoothly and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I never knew you liked grapes so much,” he said, and she collapsed into a fit of nearly uncontrollable laughter.

“Well, that's what it was,” she said with a sly grin, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “The grapes.”

* * *

They spent the next hour in a dreamlike, entranced state, hovering gently in a world somewhere between sleeping and waking. Abby dozed off for a bit, curled up against his chest as his fingers roamed idly up and down her back.

But Marcus didn’t fall asleep. He couldn’t have slept even if he tried, because sleep meant closing his eyes and closing his eyes meant not seeing her.

It hadn’t been blood loss talking when he told her she was beautiful. Abby Griffin was the most breathtaking sight he’d ever seen; she was more radiant than the Capitol at night, more vibrant than the forests of District 12.

He’d seen her glance self-consciously at the stretch marks on her stomach, the freckles that dotted her skin like constellations, but she had no reason to be embarrassed. To him they were just bookmarks of the life she’d lived, of the memories she’d made, the places she’d been and the people she loved. She was her own story, the most fascinating one he’d ever read, and he hoped the novel never finished.

She stirred against him for a second, her fingers clenching in her sleep, and he worried she was having a nightmare. Preparing himself to wake her up, he had nearly reached his hand up to shake her shoulder when he glimpsed her smile and heard her sigh in contentment.

His chest contracted as he breathed a sigh of relief. _Nothing to be worried about._ Although he wondered what images danced behind her eyelids, what she’d seen to make her smile. What did Abby Griffin dream about, when her dreams weren’t nightmares?

One day, he hoped to find out.

He tore his gaze from her a few times, staring out across the horizon at the glassy surface of the lake and the rapidly dimming sky. It wasn’t quite evening yet – the sky was still blue - but he could tell from the coolness in the air that night was approaching.

And the birds sang, the fish jumped, and Marcus Kane lay on the soft green grass with his gaze fixed on Abby Griffin.

The second time she moved, it was to give a lengthy yawn. She opened her eyes slowly, adjusting to the brightness of the world around her, and snuggled closer to him with a sleepy smile.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” Marcus responded. “I left my watch at the house. My planning was a little subpar, I’m afraid.”

She let out a long, airy laugh, and Marcus’ heart soared. Part of him still couldn’t quite believe that he possessed the ability to make her smile, let alone laugh. What angel had smiled on him and decided that he, of all people, would be the one to love Abby Griffin this way?

His mother, he decided. If Heaven was real, and miracles really happened, this was Vera Kane’s doing. And he couldn’t have been more thankful to her.

“Isn’t there a certain time you need to have me home by?” she asked, her eyes twinkling against the cerulean sky. “My curfew used to be ten o’clock – no coming back from dates after that, or I’d be in huge trouble. My dad used to yell at me.”

“Well, I’m a Peacekeeper,” he said, grinning. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel this good, this buoyant, as if the joy bubbling inside him was enough to send him reeling through space. “I can pass a law that allows you to stay out as late as you like. See if your dad-“ he paused to press a gentle kiss to the bridge of her nose, and she hummed with delight - “can argue with that.”

Abby giggled, sitting up slowly and offering him her hand so he could sit, too. She was still naked, which was admittedly a bit of a distraction, but he wouldn’t dare complain.

“I think there’s some wine left,” she said. “Let’s finish it.”

Marcus shook his head regretfully.

“I have to be able to get us back to Twelve tonight,” he said. “That would be a challenge while drunk.”

Abby sighed, setting down the empty glass and bottle she’d just picked up off the far corner of the blanket.

“Fine. Then we can save the rest for another time.”

She rested her head on his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her, settling his hand on her side. They didn’t talk for a few minutes, instead choosing to stare up at the sky that had begun morphing from blue to a vibrant orange-red.

“Do you want to go swimming?” Abby asked, and Marcus turned to her with eyebrows raised.

“Right now?”

“No, tomorrow,” she said with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “Of course ‘right now’, Marcus.”

His raised brows furrowed together in a frown.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I’m not sure I can find my way back without the light.”

She disentangled herself from him slowly, pressing a light kiss to the back of his hand.

“Well, I’m going to go for a quick swim,” she said, standing up and stretching. “You’re more than welcome to join me.”

Aiming a wink backwards at him as she walked toward the gentle waves, he realized there was no chance he’d be able to resist her. The sunlight cast her as a silhouette, her slim frame a patch of darkness in the rosy sky, and waiting out here without her was too painful of a thought to bear.

“Abby, wait,” he yelled, and she turned around to him with a grin. He closed the distance between them in seconds and soon stood by her side, his toes curling against the dew-soaked grass.

She didn’t tease him, which was unexpected, but instead took his hand as they walked toward the water together, breaking contact only to step in the clear, stone-bottom pool.

The water was cold, but not freezing: his time in training and other districts had seen him submerge himself in icier conditions. Yet it prickled goosebumps on his skin as he stepped in over his knees, and he couldn’t help thinking how was so much warmer out here, so peaceful basking in the sunlight, and maybe he could convince her if he tried hard enough to….

_Splash!_

And suddenly water was dripping everywhere. It trickled into his mouth, down his forehead, soaked his hair…and right behind him, he heard laughing.

“It’s really not that bad,” Abby said as he turned around, noticing the water was up to her waist. “You just have to get used to-“

On an impulse he splashed her back, and her sentence finished with a mouthful of lake water and spluttering. When she emerged from the wave, her hair nearly black with the dimming light and water and pale skin soaked with tiny droplets, she wore a revengeful smile.

“You’re going to pay for that, Peacekeeper Kane,” she said in a low voice, slowly stepping toward him as he moved away.

“Am I, Doctor Griffin?” he asked, and she nodded. “Well, you’ll have to catch me first.”

And wasting no time he took off, sprinting as best he could against the water’s restrictions. His stride was longer but he was larger, and as he glanced behind him he realized Abby was gaining. _Shit._

The depth increased as he went along, and he knew soon Abby wouldn’t be able to reach him. _Good,_ he thought with a smirk. _This battle’s been won._

And sure enough, she came to a halt with only her head above the water’s surface.

“Abby, I’m taller,” he yelled, biting his lower lip to keep from grinning at her obvious frustration. “You’d do best to surrender.”

She glared at him for a few moments as he tried not to slip on the stones. How she kept her balance so easily was beyond him.

“No!” she yelled back, and before he knew what was happened she’d ducked below the surface.

“Abby?” he said, his voice composed of equal parts shock and concern. He knew she could swim, but it was getting dark, and what if something happened? “Abby, you win,” he announced, hoping it would get her to come up from underwater. It had been at least ten seconds. How good was she at holding her breath? Should he start looking for her? Uncertainty gnawed at his stomach, and he tried again.

“Okay, Abby, you win.”

Then suddenly he felt something squeezing his ankles from behind and beneath the surface, and he jumped, lost his balance completely, and toppled under the water with an undignified screech.

When he managed to once again right himself, wiping water from his eyes, Abby Griffin was treading water in front of him and laughing with her head tilted back toward the painted canvas of the sky.

“I heard that,” she said between gasps for air. “Even underwater. That was _loud_.”

He groaned, finally realizing he’d fallen for her trick as he struggled to catch his breath. His foot slipped into a crack between rocks and he almost fell again, drawing peals of laughter from his onlooker. In spite of himself, he laughed, too. Abby Griffin was nothing if not clever.

“I said you won. Congratulations.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she said with fake solemnity, propelling herself forward to wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. Her hair was plastered flat to her head and the back of her neck, and her eyes reflected the jewel-like beauty of the sunset.

She was kissing him before he really knew what was happening, her lips meeting his with the taste of lake water and a spicy sweetness he’d come to realize belonged only to her. The only way it made sense for her to taste: sweet as the grapes they’d consumed earlier, but fiery as the battle in which they’d just engaged. Sweet as the woman who loved with her whole heart, fiery as the doctor who defied the Capitol.

They weren’t steady enough on the rocks to add a second round to what they finished earlier, but he was content just with this. He was content to suck lightly on her lower lip and listen to the noises she made, the soft moans he’d come to know so well.

“I don’t want this day to end,” she murmured, running her fingers through his dripping hair. The look of longing in her dark eyes was enough to leave him breathless, and not for the first time he wondered what he’d done to deserve her, to deserve the way she cared for him, to deserve the way she made him feel.

“I don’t, either,” he said, drawing her in for another kiss. But this one was tainted by the darkness bearing down on them, by the almost palpable passage of time as they closed their eyes and surrendered to each other, to the dual sensations of warm lips and tongues and cold, cold water.

But when Marcus reawakened to the world, the sky was purple instead of orange.

_Dammit._

“Abby,” he sighed, and with one look he knew she understood. They couldn’t stay here, making love in meadows and kissing in lakes, forever. There was a world they needed to get back to, a pair of kids that made his heart sing when he so much as thought about them, and a daughter she was very much looking forward to having in her arms again.

It was just bitterly unfair, he thought, that a world with so much good in it was the same one determined to keep them apart.

He’d only meant to carry her until he knew she could stand, but she didn’t ask to be put down and he didn’t relish the feeling of her absence. So, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other at her side, he held her in his arms all the way back to their blanket as she brushed her lips lightly against his neck.

They began the process of gathering their things and redressing, a laborious task only made more difficult by the absence of light. They used the blanket to dry themselves (Marcus hadn’t had the foresight to bring towels) and placed the remainders of the food back into the wicker basket.

And far sooner than he would’ve liked, they were dressed and ready to return to District 12. Marcus led the way through the woods, stopping to catch one last glance of the meadow and the lake. He wanted to burn every detail into his memory: the wildflowers, the nearly neon grass, the lake still enough that it reflected the stars beginning to shine above it.

Even if the word succeeded in its hellish quest to separate them, he’d always remember this day spent in heaven.


	23. Coming Home

The train station was claustrophobic as Abby squeezed between sweaty people under the simmering sun, trying to make her way through to the front for Clarke’s return. There were people in this crowd she’d never seen before – people she had no idea  _existed_ – and it seemed as though District 12 had doubled in size purely for this event.

“You’d think the victor’s mom and friends would get special treatment,” Raven muttered. “You know, like a decent place to watch her get off the train, time to give her a hug and  _talk_ to her, stuff like that.”

Abby sighed, knowing her wishes were, unfortunately, nothing more than baseless fantasy. 

“I doubt it,” she said, grabbing her hand so they wouldn’t get separated. Her duties as a doctor had kept her behind later than she would’ve liked – she had to treat a young boy who managed to break his arm after falling off the roof of his house – the unintended result of a dare from his friends. She reassured his panicking (and infuriated) parents, set the bone, gave him a makeshift cast, and sent the whole family away with the perfect combination of advice and pain medicine. But this had made her and Raven late for the ceremony, and since neither of them were particularly tall, this presented a problem.

She wished Marcus were here, with them, instead of standing off to the side of the platform and maintaining order from a distance. Both his stature and status would’ve been useful at a time like this. She and Raven had managed to make it to the center, but the crowd was too dense to come any closer. It appeared, she thought with chagrin, that she’d be watching the balding head of the man in front of her instead of her daughter’s return.

“I think we’ll have to stay here, Raven,” she said, resigned to her fate. “We’re not going to get any closer than this.”

“Nah,” Raven said, and Abby knew from the twinkle in her eye that she’d had something planned all along. “Watch this.”

Abby opened her mouth to protest whatever was coming, but she wasn’t quick enough.

“ _Abby Griffin coming through_!” Raven bellowed, turning heads all across the assembled group. For such a small girl, Abby thought, she was _loud_. “Clarke Griffin’s mom, Doctor Abigail Griffin, the woman you all owe your lives to!”

“Raven, most of them don’t owe me their _lives_ ,” Abby whispered, self-conscious and blushing. Her yelling even managed to catch Marcus’ attention from where he stood on stage, waiting to ensure order was maintained during the ceremony. "Most of them haven't even seen me before."

 _Help,_ Abby mouthed with an expression of pleading, inclining her head in Raven's direction.

Marcus gave her a blink-and-you’d-miss-it grin.  _She’s your problem,_ he mouthed back.

Abby sent him a long, impassioned eye-roll that ended with a smile.

 _Two days,_ her brain reminded her. _Two days and he’s gone. Two days and you might never see him again._

“Move it!” Raven continued yelling, and despite Abby’s mortification, she had to admit the mechanic's tactic was working. The sea of spectators was parting, withdrawing to opposite sides, offering a clear path to the front of the crowd. She and Raven passed through without difficulty, as various spectators offered their congratulations.

Eventually they arrived at a spot at the front of the stage. Marcus lapsed out of decorum again, this time to talk to Raven.

“Good work,” he said with a smile. Raven accepted the compliment with a nod. While their relationship had gone from rocky to somewhat stable in the past few days, it would take more than a decrease in insults for Marcus Kane to think Raven had anything other than hatred for him in her heart.

Raven made eye contact with him and offered a fractional quirk of her lips, and Marcus turned back to the crowd with a smile still stretching his. Seeing him like this made it hard for her to breathe. It wasn’t that she didn’t adore his smile, his laugh, the way the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled when he grinned and the way he talked a little faster than usual when he was happy about something. It was the knowledge that all of this was _temporary_ that sucked air from her lungs.

“Hey, Abby,” Raven said, shattering her depressing train of thought. “Earth to Abby.”

“Sorry,” she apologized.

“Your boyfriend isn’t horrible, I guess,” she said. “He's less of an ass than he was before, so I guess that’s what matters.”

Abby almost choked on air, both from the unexpectedness of her statement and the terminology she used. _My boyfriend?_

“And,” Raven added, “I can see you giving him serious ‘fuck-me’ eyes every time you’re in the same room. It’s gross, but if he makes you happy I can get behind it.

“Thank you, Raven,” Abby said, giving her a warm smile. Though it was hidden in an insult - as much of Raven's emotional statements were - it was still there. Her approval. 

“No problem.”

They stared off into the distance for a few minutes, both wanting to talk but unsure what to say until the Capitol spoke for them.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Effie Trinket’s unmistakably cheery voice exclaimed, “it’s time to welcome the victor of the 74th Annual Hunger Games home!”

The crowd roared, Raven yelled, and Abby’s eyes filled with tears as she let out a breath she’d been holding since the escort called her daughter’s name all those weeks ago.

* * *

Clarke’s new home was barren, but beautiful.

It didn’t have years and years of memories adorning the walls in wooden frames, it didn't have the cracks and scuffs and chips that came from being lived in. What it _did_ have was dust: the furniture was covered in decades’ worth of grime that would be incredibly difficult - though not impossible - to remove.

Abby thought it was beautiful all the same. Because this house truly signified that she was here: undeniable proof that this wasn't all a pleasant, beautiful dream. Clarke was  _home_ , and the Capitol could never take her away again. 

“It’s so empty,” Clarke remarked, and Abby gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“We can trade for some decorations at the Hob,” she said. “And you can take your favorite pictures from my house. I don’t need all of them.”

“That sounds strange,” Clarke said. “Calling it ‘your’ house. Are you sure Thelonious wouldn’t let me stay with you?”

 _Thelonious_. If any name had the power to make Abby’s blood run cold, it was his. For the position in which he'd placed Marcus, there was little chance that Abby would ask their mayor's permission for anything again.

“No, honey,” Abby said, pulling her in for a gentle hug. “I don’t think he would.”

She heard her daughter sniffle and held her tighter, gently rubbing her back. 

“I’ll only be right down the street,” Abby said, and she felt Clarke nodding. “You can always come and see me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Clarke disentangled herself from her mother’s arms slowly, unenthusiastically, as if she would’ve much rather spent the day hugging her than preparing her house.

She looked so worn down – so exhausted, tormented, haunted – so much like her father had when he returned from the arena. He’d won a Quarter Quell, a year with double the normal amount of tributes, but Abby imagined the aftermath was the same: the pain, the doubt, the uncertainty and regret. Especially for Clarke, her sweet, caring Clarke, who spent her whole life helping people and giving them medicine and nursing them back to health. The Games had torn down the foundation of who she was, smashed the bricks and set the pieces ablaze. Now it was up to her, and those who loved her, to help her rebuild. But she was almost eighteen now – her birthday was in less than a month – and Abby reminded herself that she wasn’t a child anymore. As much as she gladly would’ve held her for hours and stroked her golden hair and made her meals and tucked her into bed with a kiss on her forehead, those weren’t the things her daughter needed her to do. 

An entire rebellion rested on Clarke’s shoulders, and as she wandered the empty hallways of her brand-new residence, Abby couldn’t help feeling guilty. Clarke hadn’t yet accepted the position, but she would: her hatred for the Capitol wouldn’t allow her to sit idly by if she knew a resistance was forming. But her eyes lacked their normal fire, her posture had slumped, there was a tense edge to her normally cheerful tone.

Abby's daughter had come back from the arena, but part of her had gotten lost along the way.

They explored the house separately, both checking for cracks in the foundation or compromises in the structure; things they had no experience in finding, but figured they’d recognize if they stumbled upon them. Striding around the house and filling her lungs with the scent of emptiness, Abby wondered if Marcus would’ve been able to help. He had wanted to allow her some time alone with Clarke, but he likely had more expertise in this subject area.

Vaguely, she wondered what Clarke would say about their relationship. As important as Raven’s blessing had been, Abby needed her daughter’s approval if she and Marcus were going to make things work after tomorrow. Part of her doubted Clarke would say ‘no’ – she’d spent so much time with him before she left, and he had gone to see her right before the Games – but her thoughts were peppered with little nagging doubts that ate away at her certainty.

“Mom?” a voice from behind her sounded, and Abby jumped. “Sorry!” Clarke apologized when she glimpsed her reaction. 

“I know,” Abby said. “I was just lost in thought.”

Clarke approached her, her hair gleaming white-gold in the sunlight.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, and Abby blanched.

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, deciding she’d rather not get into the extensive saga surrounding her and Marcus Kane when her daughter had yet to formally move into her new house. "It can wait."

“It can't,” Clarke said. “Is it the house?”

Abby shook her head. “Honey, it’s not the house.”

“So it’s Kane, then.”

Abby stiffened. “Clarke, Marcus and I – we’re not fighting anymore,” she started, wondering how the hell she could transition from ‘we’re not fighting’ to ‘after weeks of watching the Games with me and delivering medicine for me, I fell in love with him.' Was there a way to explain it that wouldn’t sound like sheer lunacy?

“I figured that wouldn’t last,” Clarke said. “He cared too much about you.”

Abby fought a frown, wondering how her daughter knew anything about Marcus’ feelings. What had they been discussing when she went over there to talk with him, weeks ago? 

“He helped me when you were gone,” Abby said, hoping a gradual transition would be best. “He started delivering medicine for me and giving me some of his rations from the Capitol, and he came over to watch the Games so I wouldn’t be alone.”

Clarke nodded, as if she had somehow heard all of this before.

“We had a few arguments, but they weren’t anything we couldn’t work out,” she said, slowly building to the revelation she had no clue how to make. “I don’t know how I would’ve made it through those weeks without him, Clarke. I just-“

“He loves you,” Clarke said, and stunned and speechless, Abby stopped talking.

“Before you ask me how I know, I have something to give you,” Clarke said, rummaging around in the pocket of the jeans she’d put on after the ceremony. “Here.”

She held out her hand, placing in her palm the tiny pin Abby gave him before he left for training. It was cleaner than it had ever been – she figured either Clarke cleaned it, or the Capitol had polished it for her before she came home – but in the afternoon sunlight the silver practically glowed.

“How did you get this?” Abby said softly, swallowing hard.

“Kane gave it to me before I left,” she said. “When he came to see me, he had the pin and told me it went with the poem dad liked. He said you gave it to him to protect him when he first left for training. I wore it under my jacket in the arena, but I don’t need it now.”

The poem had been forever etched into her memory, but it had been decades since she’d thought about the pin. It had done its job: she was home and safe.

“Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?” Abby asked, building up the nerve to ask how her daughter knew so much about Marcus’ feelings. “He gave it to you for a reason, honey. I don’t know if he’d want it back.”

“He would,” Clarke said, words tumbling out of her mouth in a rush. “You have no idea how much it means to him, do you?”

Abby remembered that day in flashes, echoes, memories she wasn’t sure if were real or imagined. Her wearing a gray coat and mittens, standing with Marcus and Vera at the station. Him scowling when she said she’d brought him something, the longing look in his eyes after she kissed him on the cheek. The emptiness of the snow and cold that swirled around them after the train took him far, far away.

“Oh,” Clarke said quietly. “Did you not know how he felt?”

Her blue eyes widened with genuine concern, afraid she’d betrayed a secret that she and Marcus had kept to themselves.

“No, I know,” Abby said.

“Have you talked about it?” she asked slowly, apparently well aware of the emotional territory into which she was treading. “With him, I mean. It wasn’t hard for me to tell, but…”

_But we were oblivious for a long, long time._

“We talked about it,” Abby said, doing her best to ignore the awkwardness hanging in the air like a thick fog. When she thought about talking to her daughter about Marcus, it hadn’t been with the assumption she’d know more about his feelings than Abby did. “It’s complicated, honey.”

“So you don’t like him,” Clarke concluded.

Abby had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from laughing. Of all the conclusions to which her daughter had jumped, this was the most wildly inaccurate – not that she had any way of knowing.

“That’s not why,” Abby said. “He’s a Peacekeeper, Clarke. He’s being forced to go back to the Capitol the day after tomorrow, and he’ll be reassigned somewhere other than Twelve.”

“What? Who’s forcing him to go back?” Clarke interjected with a frown, visibly upset. “Why?”

The world had begun shifting, spinning around her, and Abby felt suddenly off-balance.

“I think we should sit down,” she said, motioning to the unused couch that matched the one in her own home. “We have a lot to talk about.”

* * *

And so, on the couch that was both the same as hers and as different as it could possibly be, Abby told her daughter everything. She told her about the rebellion, about the Capitol’s role in Jake’s death, about Becca’s phone call and the answer she’d given her. She told her about Marcus and the Blake siblings, the operation, and, hesitantly, how close she and Marcus had become.

“Why wouldn’t dad tell us he was involved in a rebellion?” Clarke asked, her voice strained with anger. “We could have helped, too. We could have kept him safe.”

“Clarke,” Abby said, shoving her own mixed emotions on the subject aside. She wasn’t surprised by her daughter’s reaction: it was similar to the one she’d had when Becca first broke the news. “He didn’t want to involve us in something that could threaten our safety. He knew the risks.”

“How do you _know_ that?” Clarke asked. “I’m sure he didn’t know the Capitol was going to…” she couldn’t finish her sentence, crumbling back against the couch with a sob.

“Honey, I knew your father,” Abby said, struggling against tears of her own. “He wouldn’t have sought out a position in the rebellion and assumed the Capitol would never find out. But he took the risk, because he knew Panem deserves better than the government it has now.”

Clarke looked up from her hands, giving her mother a glare that wasn’t meant for her.

“I hate the Capitol,” Clarke said, practically shaking with rage. “For what they did to dad, to Wells…he was right. Rebellion is the only way.”

Abby couldn’t help looking around, as if Thelonious or Pike would show up unannounced inside her daughter’s new home. It was a silly, unfounded fear, but even uttering those words was a breach of the law and Abby would not allow her daughter to be tied to the post.

“If rebellion is what you choose,” Abby said, turning to slide her hands down her daughter’s arms and rest them over her shaking fingers. “We don’t have to do this, Clarke. If you don’t want to join District 13, if you’re sick of fighting, it’s okay. It's okay to let someone else fight this battle.”

“No, I have to do this,” Clarke said. “For dad and Wells. Their sacrifice has to mean something, mom.”

And suddenly she wasn’t crying. She sat forward on the cushion, rubbing a mixture of saltwater and makeup from her smooth skin, her seawater eyes churning with a brewing storm. She looked so much like Jake – she had the same determined fire, the same set in her shoulders, and her heart simultaneously leapt with pride and sunk with fear. She'd just gotten her daughter back, and the thought of losing her again was too much to bear.

“When can I talk to Becca?” Clarke asked, and Abby - albeit hesitantly - informed her that they’d set up a time tomorrow in the late afternoon; that, Becca had said, would allow Clarke to get settled and think about her decision. 

“What are you going to do about Kane?” Clarke asked as Abby fixed her gaze out the window at the blue sky, trying to stop her brain from counting the hours they had left.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Thelonious told his supervisor that he hadn’t been following the laws. He's been deemed unfit to stay here.”

“Could you talk to him?” Clarke asked. “Cray didn’t follow the laws, and Jaha didn’t care. Why is Kane any different?”

 _Because people are happy with him,_  Abby thought, bitter. Marcus hadn’t been able to cure the district’s poverty – nothing short of a continued influx of supplies and resources from the Capitol would – but he’d improved things enough that a difference was noticeable. By de-electrifying the fences, people were able to discreetly hunt and trade for things they needed. This wasn’t a decision that would endear Thelonious to his people, and he had to know that. Once Marcus was gone, his popularity would decline. So, why bother? Why bother with the negative report? Why bother punishing Marcus for sins Cray committed for years on end?

“They think he’s too attached to people here,” Abby said, quoting from what Marcus had told her days ago. “That he needs to be somewhere where his personal relationships won’t interfere with enforcing the law.”

“So Jaha's mad that he’s involved with you. And this is his way of getting back at Kane for that.”

Abby felt her face beginning to flush, and she began staring out the window again.

“It’s not just me,” she said. “He’s practically adopted the Blake siblings, he feeds kids on the street. He's disobeyed quite a few laws, Clarke.”

“You’re a bad influence on him,” Clarke said with a tiny smile, a smile Abby barely managed to catch as she turned back to face her daughter. “But I think you should talk to Jaha. It’s worth a try. Besides, there’s nothing to hide if he already knows you’re together.”

 _You’re together_. Clarke had taken this in stride so far, but Abby couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. She’d left for the Games with a friend in Kane and her mother’s love, and naturally, she still had both of those things. But a third component had blossomed while she was in the arena – a relationship to which she hadn’t had time to acclimate – and she hoped it too jarring of an adjustment for her daughter to accept.

“Are you okay with it? With Marcus and I?” Abby asked quietly, suddenly realizing how much rode on her daughter’s response to those nine words. If she wasn’t – if she told her ‘no, I’d rather not see you with Marcus Kane ever again’ – Abby would respect it. “I know it seems sudden, honey, and I’m sorry. I –“

“ _Mom_ ,” Clarke said, adopting a tone of loving exasperation. “You don’t have to ask my permission.”

“But I need to know what you think,” Abby said, insistent.

There was a moment of silence, a pause in which she could hear every beat of her heart, every whoosh of breath as her lungs inflated, and every chirp of the birds that flew outside.

“Okay,” Clarke said. “If you want my opinion, I’m happy for you and Kane. I knew how much he cared about you a few weeks before I was chosen, but I kept it to myself. I thought that was something for you to deal with when he was ready to talk about it. As long as he makes you happy, that’s all I care about. And I know dad would want you to be happy, too. You deserve that.”

Overcome with emotion, Abby could only nod.  _We both deserve that,_ she thought.

“So go talk to Jaha, and convince him to let him stay,” Clarke said. "If anyone can do it, you can."


	24. Thunderstorm

“Thelonious,” Abby said, lingering in the doorway of the mayor’s office with a cordial smile. “Can I talk to you?”

He stared at her blankly, as if she’d spoken a language he couldn’t understand. Granted, it was later than she intended to have this conversation. He had less than twenty minutes before his workday ended, and she doubted very much that Mayor Thelonious Jaha was in any mood to have a conversation with the woman whose daughter won the Games.

Then she remembered what he’d done, the situation he’d put Marcus in, and stepped into his office without being invited.

“If it’s about Marcus, there’s nothing I can do,” he said as she took a seat, raising a glass of bourbon to take a long, measured sip. Abby could almost feel her blood pressure rising: less than a minute into the meeting, and he’d guessed what she was here to discuss and shut her down. What did he mean, there was nothing he could do?

“You could talk to Pike,” Abby offered, trying to keep calm while anger erupted inside her like a volcano. “That was what started this, right? You talking to Pike?”

“I’m required to give evaluations of our Peacekeepers, Abby,” Thelonious said with a defeated sigh. He swiveled in his chair to look out his window, facing away from her and talking to the trees. “That’s the way things have always been.”

“Then why was Cray here for so long?” Abby asked, walking forward to place both of her palms on his desk and lean closer. She would not be ignored. “In all his years as Peacekeeper, he didn’t do half of what Marcus has done.”

Thelonious ran a hand down his face and closed his eyes.

“Cray obeyed the Capitol, in his own way,” he said. “He wasn’t told to do anything, so he didn’t. Marcus is actively _crossing_ lines. He still is.”

“At least he gives a damn about our people,” she said, her anger beginning to boil over into her words. “He’s trying to do the right thing. To help those who need help. You couldn’t have said that for Cray.”

Thelonious looked at her with bloodshot eyes, set his drink down with shaking hands, and crossed his arms.

“What did you come here to ask me, Abby?”

“I came to ask you to talk to Pike,” Abby said. “Again. Tonight. To convince him Marcus doesn’t need to be reassigned.”

He turned back to the window again, after a few seconds of uncomfortable eye contact.

“It won’t work,” he said. “Pike’s decisions are final.”

Abby glared at him, not bothering to hide her anger as she stood, rigid as a wooden plank, in front of his desk.

“So you’re not even going to try,” she spat. “He’s your friend, Thelonious! If it were you, he’d do everything he could. But he wouldn’t have gone running to the Capitol first instead of talking to you about it, either.”

Their gazes locked, and Abby knew from the drumming of his fingers on the desk and the tension in his shoulders that she wasn’t going to get her way.

“Abby, I know Marcus is important to you,” he said. “But he hasn’t been abiding by the Peacekeeper Code. He’s not supposed to be forming emotional attachments; he's supposed to be following the law. There’s nothing that can be done for him.”

Abby took a deep breath and let it out quickly, closing her eyes and clenching her jaw. An appeal to whatever remained of Thelonious’ good nature had been her last hope, and she’d let herself believe he would see reason. That he’d realize the good Marcus had accomplished for their district outweighed his breaches of the law. Apparently, there wasn't enough of the man who'd been Marcus Kane's friend left to see beyond the selfish haze.

“Do you know where he’ll be reassigned?” she asked. If he were placed in Six or Eight, there was a chance she’d be able to see him on weekends. They wouldn’t have much time – the trip would take at least four hours if she was allowed to leave the district, and she wasn’t fond of trains to begin with – but for him, she’d make it work. If it meant she could hear his voice, feel his arms around her, his lips against her hair…

“I’m not sure he’s being reassigned,” Thelonious said with an expression that danced dangerously close to genuine sympathy, and Abby’s world came to a screeching halt.

_Not being reassigned? What the hell does that mean?_

“I…” she started, her mask of composure peeling off slowly to reveal the distress beneath. “I don’t understand.”

“It’ll depend on whether or not Pike trusts him to continue enforcing the law,” he said. “But after feeding children with his rations, taking in orphans, becoming involved with a woman who broke several laws…it doesn’t seem likely.”

The world was spinning and Thelonious’ words were veering around her, bouncing off the walls, ricocheting inside her head to instigate what she knew would become a horrendous headache. And all the while he sat in front of her, his fingers locked together, his expression solemn.

She could’ve punched him.

“What are you saying?” Abby whispered. “Thelonious, tell me what happens if he isn’t reassigned.”

He paused, his gaze finding the floor and cementing itself there.

“He’ll be executed,” he said. “I’m sorry, Abby.”

Stunned and sickened, Abby could barely breathe.

"Like hell, you're sorry," she glowered. "This was what you wanted, wasn't it?"

Insulting the mayor was probably treason of some kind - it was definitely breaking the law - but she was far beyond caring what legal trouble her words could rain down on her.

Thelonious stared at her, his gaze empty. "Abby, I know this isn't-"

And suddenly, she couldn't bear to hear it. Time was being wasted, she had no plan for Marcus' survival in place, and Thelonious Jaha wasn't going to help her solve a problem he damn well had created.

"Wells would be ashamed of you," she hissed, glaring for a moment longer.

Then she left his office without saying goodbye, slamming the door hard enough to crack the thin wooden frame.

Did Marcus know he wasn’t just going back to the Capitol for another job? Had he known, and not told her? And what if he _didn’t?_   As she bounded down the steps of the district's administration building, all but sprinting on long-fractured tile, she could see only one solution to their problem: they had to leave. All of them. Marcus, her, Clarke, Bellamy and Octavia. As soon as possible. She’d come back for Raven when Marcus was safe, but they had just over 24 hours to get him to safety and Raven wasn't concretely linked to either of them. She would be safe: the rest of them wouldn't.

If Thelonious Jaha wouldn’t save Marcus Kane, Abby Griffin would do it herself.

* * *

Evening fell, blanketing the district in a misty fog, and Marcus Kane sat in Abby Griffin’s home, on her couch, and tried not to look at the clock.

He’d taken the liberty of preparing a meal for her earlier, although he had no clue when she’d be home or if her daughter would be joining them. He’d scraped together the last of his meager money to purchase the ingredients for a vegetable and beef stew – something he knew Abby would appreciate on a cold, rainy night like tonight – and while he wasn’t able to find everything listed on his mother’s old recipe, he had enough of the original contents to ensure it would taste as good as it had when they were kids.

The woman who owned The Hob had taken a liking to him after what he’d done to increase business, and he’d managed to bargain for a beautiful, if tarnished, ring. Marcus had no immediate plans involving it – not when he was scheduled to return to the Capitol in less than two days - but after he’d received his reassignment, if Abby came to visit him…maybe. Maybe when the time was right, when the winds of chaos had stopped toppling their lives, he’d ask her the four-word question he began pondering that day at the lake.

After adding the vegetables and stirring the simmering mixture, he fell back into his favorite seat on the couch and pulled the ring out of his pocket. It was a rarity for District 12, that much he knew. The clear stone resting atop the band sparkled in the low, flickering light, casting flecks of glowing brightness onto the celling and all across the walls. The silver metal's sheen was dulled with pockets of black and light green, but the discoloration was nothing he couldn’t fix with the right materials and some time. When he arrived at his next district, perhaps he’d be able to take it to a jeweler - if there was one - and have it cleaned.

Marcus wished he’d been able to give Abby something worthy of her beauty, but considering he and the Capitol weren’t on the best of terms, anything besides the ring the kind woman at the Hob had sold him seemed out of the question. And Abby never cared much for material possessions; people were the only things that mattered to her.

Then he heard the door open, slamming in unison with a thunderclap that shook the foundations of her home, and he shoved the ring in his pocket and zipped it closed. Before he’d fully risen to greet her, Abby practically leapt into his arms.

“We have to go,” she panted, gasping for air as if she’d sprinted home, clothes cemented to her shaking, rain-soaked form. “Tonight. Right now. I’ll go get Clarke, you get Bellamy and Octavia, and we can meet here in an hour.”

“Abby, slow down,” he said as she continued to clutch him like a life vest on a sinking ship. “Are you all right?”

It wasn’t as though leaving the district and taking off into the forest hadn’t occurred to him – he’d often pondered his chances in the wilderness versus his chances of surviving his encounter with Pike – but he felt the numbers were on his side. Peacekeepers were rarely, if ever, executed; it was a sentence rarely used, unless the accused was found guilty of treason. Granted, he’d stretched a few laws, crossed a few lines. But he hadn’t crossed _that_ one, and for good reason.

“I’m fine,” she reassured him, her eyes wide, her breaths short. “I talked to Thelonious. You’re not being reassigned. If you go back to the Capitol, they’ll execute you.”

Marcus couldn’t help it – his jaw dropped. It didn’t make sense. Throughout his years on the force, he’d had commanding officers who did much worse and retired with honor to a luxury apartment in the city. Could Thelonious have been making something up, telling a story to force Abby’s hand?

There was little doubt that he understood his relationship with her was more than platonic – if he’d seen him leaving her house that morning after the Games, he had likely glimpsed other visits as well. But what would his purpose be in forcing Abby into action? Would he try to get her arrested now? Why? She wasn’t after his power, his position. As always, her first priority was protecting the people she cared about.

“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Marcus asked, wishing he’d been present at the meeting. One of the things he remembered well from his days in training was lie detection: certain ticks and quirks a person adopted when they were stretching the truth. That expertise, he thought, would’ve come in handy when Thelonious spoke to her.

“I’m not going to assume he was lying,” Abby said. “I won't take that chance. Marcus, we’re wasting time.”

She let go of him then, a flash of brown hair and rain-soaked denim, and snatched her linen bag of medicine. He watched as she emptied its contents onto the floor and began shoving food into it instead, rifling through her pantry for non-perishables. With a sigh he walked over to stand beside her, placing his hand on top of hers as it landed on a bag of dried fruits he’d given her weeks ago.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, pressing her hand to the bag so she wouldn’t ignore him and continue her task. 

She glared up at him, brown eyes flashing with determination.

“No. I’m going with you,” she said firmly, surprising him with her strength as she slid her hand from his grasp. “That’s not up for discussion.”

“You’re right, it’s not. Because you’re not going.”

She ignored him, continuing to pack food and medicine into the bag that was nearly bursting at the seams.

“Abby, if you and the kids were caught with me out there you’d receive a treason sentence,” he said, hoping perhaps his words would speak louder than his actions. “Think about what you’re doing. What’ll happen if this doesn't go our way.”

“Then I won’t get caught,” she said, and he resigned himself to the fact that words weren’t going to change her mind, either. He waited until she came back from depositing the bag by the door, dumping it unceremoniously in a heap on the doormat, then gently grabbed her arm to spin her toward him in the entryway.

She hadn’t looked at him since she said she wouldn’t get caught, a small detail into which he hadn’t read anything specific. Until now; until he glimpsed the tears forming in her eyes, the way she dug her teeth into her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“Please, Abby, I’m begging you,” he whispered. “Just don’t…don’t do it. Your people need you here, to help them. To show them the way out of the dark.”

She was quiet, the only sound escaping her lips the short, shallow breaths that never quite filled her lungs as she moved closer.

“I can’t do this again,” she said as her voice broke, and Marcus felt his heart shatter.

 _Again_. She couldn’t do this again.

Because the first time had been Jake, the man she’d spent decades with, the man she’d had a child with and loved with every piece of her passionate, rebellious heart. The first time had been the man she loved since she was sixteen, the man with whom she’d been destined to spend the rest of her life.

Until destiny decided it had other plans.

And somehow destiny had placed him on some equal level to Jake Griffin, it had brought them together after his years in the Capitol and the silence they’d cultivated like the herbs in the forest. And those unanswered letters meant something more, something Marcus hadn’t been able to tell her because he’d have to leave her.

Following ‘I love you’ with ‘goodbye’ was a cruelty only the Capitol could match.

Her hands hovered, ghostlike, in the air next to the sides of his face. They finally settled there, her thumbs lightly stroking his cheeks, his beard, and something in the contact of skin on skin fractured his reverie enough to drive home their reality.

Abby Griffin loved him, and he loved her, but that love might not be enough to keep them together.

He wrapped his arms around her slowly, gently, his arms feeling as though they’d turned to cement. How sweet her words, how bitter the aftertaste.

“You won’t have to,” he murmured, his words dissolving as soon as they were exposed to the open air. “There has to be another way, and we’ll find it. But I won’t have you and the kids risking your lives for me.”

Abby’s hands shifted to his hair, and she pulled his forehead down to rest against hers. The last time they’d done this had been in the forest, wrapped in a cocoon of denial and hope and the illusion they could create a future for themselves within the numbered days left on the calendar. Their proximity made it possible for him to feel everything: the softness of her breath, the way her fingers radiated heat as she stroked his beard.

“We’re in this together,” she said, closing her eyes as their breaths and heartbeats synchronized. “If the kids knew what was happening, they wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And neither will I.”

“Just give me the next day,” he pleaded. “If I haven’t come up with anything by then, we can go ahead with your plan. But I need time to think before we do this, Abby. Please, just give me that.”

She leaned away to stare up at him then, her tiny hands resting at the base of his neck. For a moment they were back in the forest again, her expression turning back the hands of time so they were teenagers. And those same brown eyes shone with tears, those same rose petal lips trembled with sobs unreleased.

“We’re out of time,” she said brokenly, with a voice that belonged to the girl he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. And how odd, he thought, that they could stand together in the same district under the thunderclaps and flashes of lighting, with everything changed and everything the same. 

“I know,” he said, letting the words drip from his lips like the raindrops down her front windows. “I know.”


	25. The Lights

Abby could hardly taste the beef stew, her taste buds all but numb with sadness. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve savored every bite, let the saltiness of the broth linger on her tongue before swallowing it with a satisfied smile. This was an old recipe of Vera’s, and it tasted every bit as good as she’d remembered it. Or at least it _would_ have, if not for the circumstances under which it was being served.

She knew this wasn’t how she wanted to spend her second-to-last night with Marcus – as an emotional mess – but Thelonious’ revelation had taken her crumbling world and crushed it into dust, which Marcus had then scattered to the wind by refusing her escape plan. She’d lost Jake, but she had Clarke. Then she lost Clarke, but she had Marcus. And now she had Clarke again but she’d lose Marcus, unless he saw reason and agreed to leave the district as soon as possible.

The stew gave off little wisps of steam that danced in the darkening light, and Abby tried to force her churning stomach to be hungry.

“What are you thinking about?” a voice came from across the table, weighed down by the same muted desolation that rendered her hands unable to pick up the tarnished spoon sitting next to her bowl again. How ironic, she thought, that they could have an exquisite meal sitting before them and refuse to eat it.

“Who said I was thinking about anything?” she replied, staring sullenly at her stew.

She wasn’t going to talk to him about this again. Not until there was something to talk about. Not until he gave up his pointless hero act and agreed with her. And it had been his decision to get on with their lives, to pull a pair of bowls out of the scuffed cabinets and ladle out dinner like it was a normal night, like they could spend the rest of their lives making stew and sitting across from each other at the dinner table.

“You have that look,” he said.

She paused, trying to figure out what words coincided with the emotions roiling in her chest.

“How are you _okay_ with this, Marcus?” she said. “You’re acting like nothing’s wrong.”

He gave a brittle laugh, a laugh that shattered like dropping glass on the floor.

“Just because I’m not talking about it doesn’t mean I've accepted it,” he said. “I’m haven't. You know that.”

She sat up straighter in her chair, shifting so the column of steam didn’t block her view of him.

“You know my way is the only way out of this,” she said, trying not to sound as exasperated as she felt. What did he think was going to happen in the next day? Did he think Pike would allow him to stay? Did he think, somehow, that Friday morning would come and that damn train wouldn’t separate them again - this time permanently?

“So why delay it?” she continued. “Marcus, we should go tonight. We shouldn’t wait. If we leave now, we could be deep into the woods by tomorrow morning.”

“You just said you’d give me a day,” he said, frowning. “What changed?”

“’What changed’ is I can barely look at you!” she exclaimed, standing up from the table, all the strings that held together her frail composure finally unraveling. “Looking at you and knowing you won’t be there in two days unless we leave…I can’t do it, Marcus. I can’t lose you like this. I can't do _nothing_.”

“Abby,” he sighed, as resigned as she was upset. “I told you you’re not going to lose me, and I meant it.”

“You can’t control that,” she said, raising her voice. Her world had shrunk down to this kitchen table and the man who sat before her, quietly absorbing her words like a stew-eating sponge. “I can’t control that. Jaha doesn’t even control that. And I’m sick of losing people I love to the Capitol!”

Her companion, who had been previously taking small bites of his meal while staring up at her, dropped his spoon to the porcelain dish with a loud clatter.

“What?” he asked, shock creeping over his features as he rose to his feet. Oblivious, Abby began repeating her phrase, irked that he hadn't been paying enough attention to her to listen the first time.

“I _said_ , I’m sick of…”

_Oh._

When she said she couldn’t do this again, she’d put him with Jake, elevated him to his level because – at least in her head – that’s where he was. But there was a difference in the implication versus an outright statement, and she hadn’t thought before she spoke. Her anger had gotten the best of her and the words tumbled out, an avalanche started by beef stew that tasted like ash on her tongue.

But that word – love – was the only way she could describe how she felt about Marcus Kane. It was the reason her chest felt like it was cracking open when she glanced at him over bowls of steaming stew, because her heart couldn’t handle seeing and experiencing the quiet, peaceful life of which the Capitol was about to rob them.

They started moving toward each other at the same time, pushing in chairs and nearly knocking over wine glasses to meet at the head of the table.

“Say that again,” Marcus said, his voice barely louder than the howling wind outside.

“I’m sick of losing people I love,” Abby said, words riding on a single exhale, gaze reaching out for his and never letting go. “I love you, Marcus. And I’m not going to let Pike and Jaha and Snow take you away from me.”

Marcus stared at her for a few moments, wide-eyed and speechless. Abby remembered that look from when they were kids. When he first opened a new book, when he stepped outside into the first snowfall of winter. It was a gaze composed of disbelief and longing, and she almost began crying yet again when she registered the recognition in his eyes. _This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen._

Maybe, she thought, she should have told him at the lake. When everything was perfect and bright and happy, and they’d outrun the Capitol’s grasp for a few precious, surreal, dreamlike hours. But it was no less true now than it had been then, and Abby knew that was possibly the only thing the Capitol couldn’t take from her: her love. They hadn’t taken her love for Jake when they took him, they hadn’t taken her love for Clarke when she was reaped, and they wouldn’t take her love for Marcus Kane.

“Abby, I…” he started, swallowing hard as the rain continued to pound against her roof. She knew he hadn’t expected this, not now, not with the weight of the world bearing down on their shoulders. As much as she yearned to hear those words, he didn’t have to say them for her to know how he felt.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, gathering him in her arms and pulling him close until she felt his every pulse of his heartbeat. She didn’t know if he understood what was okay – if he knew she wouldn’t be upset if those words weren’t forming right now – but the lump in her throat prevented her from saying more than three syllables.

“I love you, too,” he said after a pause, after letting the storm and the thunder speak for him. “I…I’ve loved you for a long time.”

Briefly, she wondered that thing she’d wondered earlier when Clarke gave her the pin. She wondered about that day on the train platform, collected the dots of her memories, of his expression when she pressed her lips to his red, warm cheek. She collected the dots, but didn’t connect them.

Instead she closed the distance between them with a soft kiss, relishing the warmth of his lips and the electricity of his touch. He tasted like the stew that had long cooled on the kitchen table – salty and flavorful – and she vaguely regretted not taking another bite when she had the chance.

They had so little time left together, so little time to hold each other, kiss each other, show each other the meaning of the words they just said. Marcus sucked lightly on her lower lip, drawing forth a moan from deep inside her, and she realized he’d arrived at the same conclusion as she tangled her fingers in his hair.

So she held him even tighter, their hearts beating in unison, and dreaded the moment she’d have to let go.

* * *

“This isn’t how I imagined this happening,” he whispered after, running his warm fingers up and down her back as her body still hummed with her fading climax. They managed to pull the blanket that had been draped over the back of the couch down on top of them, and between the soothing rainfall and his furnace-like warmth she could feel her eyelids getting heavy. “Telling you I love you for the first time.”

A warmth washed over her that had nothing to do with post-coital glow: she’d never tire of hearing those words. _I love you._ But she almost laughed despite her drowsiness – almost nothing in their relationship had gone how she imagined.

“Oh?” she said, snuggling closer. “What were you thinking, then?”

He blushed scarlet, looking out the window at the pouring rain.

“I thought…well, at some point…I’d take you to see the lights,” he said, and she gave him a bemused frown. _The lights?_

“When I was stationed in District 7,” he said, “I always used to see lights in the sky at night during the summer. They were all different colors – purple, blue, green, pink – like someone had taken a paintbrush and turned the night sky into a canvas. People there always marveled at them, and I used to think they were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”

Abby blushed at his implication, continuing to imagine the scene Marcus described. She didn’t know much about District 7, other than that their industry was lumber. Those were the things the Capitol didn’t tell Panem, she thought. They told people all about what was exported, but didn’t bother with beauty.

“I don’t know how I thought it would happen, but I was going to take you to see them,” he said with a small chuckle, as if suddenly realizing the unlikeliness of his fantasy. “And I’d turn to you, see you smiling as you watched the sky, and I’d tell you.”

She brushed her lips against his neck and curled into his side as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It hurt too much to think about his dream, his plan, the way things were supposed to be. Neither of them had wanted it to happen like this, and calling that realization to the forefront of her memory might make her do something stupid, like crying. So, she decided to mask her emotions.

“I think I have a candle somewhere that we could light,” she said with a yawn, and he laughed. “Pretend we’re in Seven.”

“That might make me feel better.”

“If it helps,” she added with a smirk, “you more than made up for it tonight. I don’t think we could’ve done _this_ in the middle of a crowd.”

“Well, no,” Marcus said, quirking one side of his mouth upward. “Not in the middle of a crowd. But there are a few nice beaches by the ocean, places only for people with Capitol-level clearance…”

Abby had never seen the ocean before – at least not in person. Marcus used to show her sketches and illustrations in his books, and Jake had been able to see it on his Victory Tour, but Abby had never stood with her feet in the salty waves and heard the birds uttering their cries overhead. But she could imagine it now, their bodies tangled together on the shore as the scent of the sea swept over her with every breath she took, the only sounds Marcus’ guttural groans and the gentle lapping of the waves.

If she tried hard enough, she could almost forget time was passing. She could relax into him, resting her head on his chest while the pattering of the rain and the rhythm of his breaths sang her to sleep.

But there was no amount of trying that could make her forget what the passage of time meant.

The potent resurgence of the thought jolted her awake, as if the lighting had passed through the foundations of her home to strike her directly and electrify every nerve beneath her skin. Marcus noticed her change in demeanor, her sudden stiffness, and withdrew his lips from her hair.

“Abby?” he murmured as she pushed herself away from him, broken and yearning and terrified and desperately, hopelessly in love. She began getting dressed, collecting the clothes they’d scattered around the kitchen in their haste to forget, to numb tomorrow’s pain with today’s pleasure.

“I’m going to take some of this to Clarke,” she said, motioning to her untouched dinner and the cooling pot on the stove as she pulled on her shirt. “I don’t know what she’s going to eat if I don't.”

“You need to eat something, too,” she heard him say, watching him rise from the couch out of the corner of her eye.

“I will when I get back,” she said, pouring some of the lukewarm stew into a bowl. “You can come, if you want. I’m sure Clarke would be overjoyed.”

“When we get back, you’ll want to talk about tomorrow,” he said, and she muttered a few obscenities under her breath. That had been the plan. Go to Clarke, hope seeing her daughter would be enough to cheer her up, then come home and figure out how to navigate the unreadable roadmap of the rest of their lives. “You’re not going to eat anything.”

“Marcus, if I wait much longer she might be asleep,” Abby said. It wasn’t true – Clarke would likely be up for another few hours at least – but she felt as though the atmosphere of this house were poisoning her. There were times when she could breathe; when Marcus told her he loved her, when they kissed, when he held her; but then there were times when her heart ached with a pain no medicine could cure, when her mind drifted back to Jaha’s office and those horrible, putrid words.

Everything reminded her of Marcus, everything reminded her of Jake, and Clarke’s house was a clean slate. A fresh start. Nothing to drum up heartaches old and new.

Abby glanced at him as she covered the stew, an endearing mix of ruffled hair and rumpled clothes and kiss-swollen lips, and wondered if the empty house would do anything for her mood at all.

“I should check on Bellamy and Octavia,” he said as they moved in tandem toward the door. “Make sure the house is still standing. Do you think Clarke would forgive me if I didn’t see her tonight?”

Abby smiled. “Yes. How long will you be with the Blakes?”

Marcus’ shoulders slumped, and he looked away.

“I haven’t told them yet,” he said. 

Her knowledge of the Blakes was admittedly limited – the most she knew was that Bellamy cared for Octavia with his whole heart, and Octavia was almost as stubborn as Clarke but with twice the temper – but she knew how deeply Marcus cared for them. And while she didn’t know about the kids as individuals, their body language and expressions displayed how they liked him, too: Octavia’s smile when he spoke, Bellamy’s gravitation toward him each time they shared a room.

Going over to the house he’d all but given them just to say tomorrow was his last day in Twelve…it wouldn’t be easy for any of the parties involved.

“It’ll be okay,” she said, finding his deep brown eyes, her heart shattering as she noticed his grief. “Better to tell them now than tomorrow morning.”

"I won't be able to stay there tonight," Marcus said, his voice heavy. "I would, if they wanted, but after this...I don't think I'll be welcome. And I won't let them go back to my old house."

“I assumed you’d be staying with me tonight.”

Her heart wasn’t whole enough for the wide, dazzling smiles she gave him by the lake, but she managed a flash of teeth and a smirk.

“I-“ he started, flustered. Only Marcus Kane, she thought, could make love to her and then stumble over his words when she asked him to stay the night. “You’re right,” he finished, and she stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Whenever you're done talking to them,” she said while opening her umbrella, “Clarke would love to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 400\. KUDOS. I can't believe it, you guys. Thank you so, so, so, so, SO much. I appreciate every Kudos and every comment from the bottom of my heart. <3


	26. Bad News

“So you finally decided to get your ass back home?” Octavia said, holding open the door for Marcus to re-enter the house he’d been assigned months earlier. Her tone was harsh but her eyes were playful, and the pit of guilt in his stomach widened.

“It’s nice to see you, Octavia,” Marcus responded, stepping around her while she closed the door and turned the lock. Despite his distraction he was relieved to find her looking well – color had returned to her cheeks, and she was walking steadily on her feet.

“Are you gonna stay here tonight?” she asked with a grin as Marcus followed her into the living room and sat down on his old, patched couch. “This is open for you to sleep on if you are.”

“O,” another voice chimed in with a hint of warning. “This is his house. He can sleep wherever the hell he wants.”

Bellamy emerged from the next room, carrying a plate of meat and a glass of water.

“Hey, Kane,” he said, sitting in the armchair while his sister stood by his side. 

“Bellamy,” Marcus said, leaning back against the cushions. He’d hoped the plush surface would iron out the tension in his back, slow the pounding of his heartbeat, but it did nothing of the sort.

“There’s food in the kitchen,” Bellamy said. “O and I caught some turkeys today.”

“I already ate,” Marcus said hurriedly, his words moving at the speed of his thoughts. He glanced around the room, trying to avoid making eye contact with either of the siblings until he thought of how best to say what needed to be said. How to go about telling two of the most important people in his life that unless he thought of the perfect idea within the next twenty-four hours, he’d never see them again?

“We thought you’d be with Abby tonight,” Octavia said. “It’s kinda late.”

Marcus fixed his gaze on a crack in the wall right above Bellamy’s head and didn’t look away.

“She asked me to come back after I checked in with you,” he said.

“Have you seen Clarke?” Bellamy asked, an edge in his voice Marcus noticed seemed to only be associated with her. Clearly, he still felt he owed her that debt. Marcus shook his head.

“I think the only person who’s seen her today is Abby,” he said. “She had to move into her new home.”

“Oh, yeah,” Octavia said, getting up from her chair to wander toward the kitchen, undoubtedly in search of the turkey Bellamy offered. “I forgot victors get new houses.”

Bellamy was quiet, sitting down in her chair with a contented sigh as soon as he was out of her line of sight. When Marcus noticed what he was doing, he gave the boy a stern look.

“She’s going to be mad at you,” he noted.

“She can find somewhere else to sit,” Bellamy retorted. “This place is full of chairs.”

Marcus shrugged, noticing for the first time how the Blakes had remodeled his living room. They’d brought over quite a few things from their old house, his old house: piles and piles of books were strewn haphazardly on his coffee table, along with a few mildewed maps. Octavia’s jacket was thrown across the floor – Bellamy’s was, at least, hung up on the TV set – and in the center of it all, nestled on the edge of the table, was his mother’s Eden tree. Octavia remembered it.

He swallowed hard, suddenly remembering why he was here.

Octavia bounded back into the room with a full plate, freezing when she noticed her brother’s new seat.

“Out,” she ordered, glaring at him. “Now.”

Bellamy gave her a smirk, brushing dark curls out of his eyes.

“There’s plenty of room on the couch, O.”

_Oh, no._

Marcus hadn’t wanted to say what he had to say with the siblings across the room from him, but with Octavia less than three feet away…it was too damn much. To be that close to her when he broke the news wouldn’t just be heartbreaking: with her temper, it could be _dangerous_. But his time with them was so limited, so precious, and he couldn’t quite force himself to stand up when Octavia settled next to him on the couch and began picking away at her turkey with her fingers.

“By the way, we found your love letters,” Octavia garbled through a mouthful of turkey, and Marcus’ heart skipped a beat. _Love letters?_

“She means the letters Abby sent you,” Bellamy said. “I told her not to go through your stuff, but…”

“I mean, you said your home was ours,” she quipped with a grin. “I figured that included your room, Kane.”

Marcus sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. He didn’t mind that they read the letters – it didn’t matter so much now that he and Abby were together – but he at least hoped they were still intact. That they hadn’t mysteriously gone missing.

“They’re still here, right?” Marcus asked, trying to keep the fear he felt out of his voice. “Please tell me you didn’t do anything with them.”

Octavia laughed, and Bellamy shook his head.

“She didn’t,” Bellamy said. “I made sure they’re back in the drawer where she found them.”

He breathed a palpable sigh of relief, a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by either of the siblings.

“You really had a thing for her, didn’t you?” Octavia said, elbowing him playfully in the ribs. The gesture was painless but he gritted his teeth, more from the fact that he was leaving them than any physical sensation. In less than a day, he wouldn’t be enduring their teasing. He wouldn’t be sitting on a couch with a smirking Octavia Blake, or staring across the room at a helpless-looking Bellamy. All he’d have of them would be memories, ghosts of days past, hazes of laughter and shades of love.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Octavia said, quoting one of his unsent correspondences in a tone of exaggerated romanticism. “’I’m just happy to hear from you _._ ’ Damn, Kane. Why didn’t you just tell her how you felt?”

“She was with Jake back then,” Marcus said, keeping his tone flat and avoiding any _personal_ revelations. No matter how long he and Abby were together, he had the feeling he’d never quite live down his teenage crush. “They were very happy together. I wasn’t going to ruin that.”

“Whoa,” Bellamy chimed in from across the room. “She was already with Clarke’s dad? At…” he did some math in his head, trailing off for a few seconds. “Eighteen?”

“Sixteen,” Marcus corrected him. He remembered the details all too well – those were the things that the decades hadn’t sanded down, the years hadn’t washed away. The way she always smelled like flowers, the windchime sound of her laugh, the tiny freckles on her nose that only appeared during the summer…his mind clutched those images and memories like a life raft.

“And yes, they were together for a long time,” Marcus finished, hoping the subject would be dropped so he could get on with the conversation the Capitol forced him to have. His heart was lurching in his chest, and he could feel beads of sweat soaking into his shirt from his back although the house was cool.

“Was that awkward for you?” Octavia asked. “Considering you guys were all friends back then? That must have really sucked.”

“No, it didn’t,” Marcus said, running his fingers through his hair, finding sweat at his hairline as he continued his involuntary detour down memory lane. “I wanted her to be happy.”

“She seems pretty happy with you,” Bellamy observed.

“And I’m happy with her,” Marcus said. “She’s a wonderful woman.”

They looked at each other for a long moment – Marcus at Octavia, Octavia at Bellamy, and Bellamy at Marcus – each unsure how best to continue.

“So, why are you here with us?” Octavia asked, picking up the last piece of turkey on her plate. In spite of himself, Marcus had to gawk – it seemed as though only a moment ago her plate had been towering with food. “And not with the love of your life? We’re not gonna be offended if you spend time with Abby, Kane.”

Marcus bit his lip as his stomach sank. _And so it begins._ He made eye contact with Bellamy as he spoke, trusting him to understand better than his sister would.

“Actually, there’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said. “Something I would have told you earlier, if I could.”

“We can’t stay here,” Octavia assumed, throwing her plate on the coffee table with a crash that echoed through the house. It was apparent she’d been waiting for something to go wrong, and it sent shockwaves of agony through him to know he’d be proving her right.

“It’s not about the house,” Marcus said, although he came to the unpleasant realization as he spoke that the house _would_ be involved. If he was no longer Peacekeeper, the house would no longer be his, which meant the Blakes would have nowhere to go but his old home. Inwardly, he cursed himself for his own stupidity. Why hadn’t he thought of that before offering it to them? In his haste to be kind, he’d now look unspeakably cruel. Bellamy seemed to pick up on something in his tone, and when he spoke his voice was oddly quiet.

“Why did you come here tonight, Kane?” he asked, brown eyes both questioning and pleading.

The question hung in the air like smoke, burning his lungs as he breathed, and Marcus knew he could delay no longer.

“I’m leaving Twelve,” he said. “The Capitol is forcing me to go back. After tomorrow, you’ll have a new Peacekeeper.”

Octavia frowned, and it was clear his words hadn’t sunk in all the way.

“What?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

Bellamy’s gaze fell to the floor, and his shoulders slumped. Unlike his sister, he understood.

“I have to leave District 12,” Marcus said, each word causing a physical ache in his chest as the confusion in her eyes dissolved into understanding. “Octavia, I-“

Before he could apologize, she’d flipped her plate onto the ground with a crash, shattering it into tiny pieces. Grease stained the carpet as she stood, her back straight, her face devoid of any emotion.

“Makes sense,” she said, staring him down. “Thanks for nothing, Kane.”

Then she walked over to his mother’s tree and tipped the pot, sending it to the ground as dirt flew across the room like shrapnel from an explosion. The sound of the collision – china on tile – was enough to make his skin crawl, but the snapping of branches as the tree met the ground was too horrifying for him to take.

He sprang from the cushions and darted toward the sapling as she stomped up the stairs.

Needless to say, no goodbyes were exchanged.

As he cradled the tree in his hands, relieved to see the roots and trunk hadn’t been damaged, he tore his gaze from it and noticed Bellamy had disappeared. Had he gone after Octavia? He hadn’t noticed him crossing the room to reach her, but he’d been so desperate to reach the tree… Consumed with regret, he barely noticed the gentle tap on his shoulder until it graduated to a nearly full-blown punch. He glanced upward to find the boy hovering over him with a glass bowl: the closest thing to a vase that existed in the house.

“Here,” Bellamy said, holding the bowl out to him at arm’s length, as if he were a rabid dog that might bite him at any moment. The gesture was both touching and saddening. He took the bowl and began scooping dirt from the floor, depositing it into the makeshift pot.

“Thank you,” Marcus said, awestruck. After everything that happened, Bellamy Blake was helping him?

“Yeah,” Bellamy responded, kneeling down to help him gather the loose dirt.

The job was done in less than five minutes, his mother’s tree replanted and nestled safely in its new home. Marcus rose to his feet slowly, knocked off-balance by Bellamy’s behavior. Had he heard him correctly? Did he think he and Octavia would be able to keep the house? Why hadn’t he left with his sister?

“Bellamy, I’m sorry,” Marcus said, looking him in the eyes as they stood in the center of his living room with rain pounding and Octavia stomping and thunder rolling. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. When I offered you and your sister this house, it wasn’t supposed to be temporary. I meant it.”

“I know,” Bellamy said.

His mind flickered back to their first meeting – a gun and a punch – and wondered how on earth they ended up here. An orphan and a Peacekeeper who understood each other better than members of his force ever could.

“O will come around,” Bellamy said. “I can talk to her and see if she’ll give you a real goodbye before you leave.”

“Abby and I are trying to think of something,” Marcus said, praying he could give the boy at least a shred of hope onto which to hold. “We’re thinking of ways I might not have to go back to the Capitol. But I can’t stay in Twelve, no matter what happens.”

Bellamy nodded. “So they’re kicking you out,” he said. “Is this because of us?”

Marcus blanched. _Was_ it because of the Blakes? He’d been so consumed with Abby’s role in his departure that he hadn’t considered his relationship with them: how willing he’d been to share his food and time with a pair of orphans. Yet another act of kindness condemned by Capitol law.

“It’s probably more because of Abby,” Marcus said, unwilling to lie, but unwilling to place heavy blame and guilt on Bellamy’s young shoulders. “Jaha started seeing me with her, and told my supervisor about it.”

Another nod from Bellamy.

“Do you know if you’ll be able to visit?” Bellamy asked. “Once O realizes there was nothing you could do, I’m sure she’ll miss you.”

“Probably not,” Marcus said.

 _Execution tends to hinder any possibility of visiting,_  he thought. But he wouldn't tell Octavia and Bellamy the details of his fate. Better for them to not know, to not get involved and risk their lives for him. He already had enough on his hands trying to keep Abby from putting herself in danger for him.

“Yeah,” Bellamy said. “Okay. We might not be here, anyway.”

His eyes widened as soon as the second sentence left his lips.

“What?” Marcus asked, his fingers tightening around the tree as confusion settled in. Unless he’d been accepted to Peacekeeper training – an impossibility, he was too old to sign up now – or reaped for the Games, there was no way he would be given clearance to leave the district.

“I…” Bellamy started, stumbling over his words, befuddled. “Octavia and I, um…”

Marcus had an idea where his sentence was headed, but hoped it took an unexpected turn before it arrived.

“Bellamy, why wouldn’t you be here?”

The boy sighed, his face a near-perfect rendition of a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

“Octavia and I were thinking about joining the rebellion,” he said quietly, glumly, each word dragging and bogged down with the weight of involuntary revelation. “Since we can’t do anything here and the Capitol’s done nothing for us, it seems like it’s meant to be.”

The world was fading in and out of a blur, Bellamy’s words tinny and far away as they sunk in. _Joining the rebellion._ Not only was it unspeakably dangerous, but it was nearly impossible. Where did they think they’d find a rebel force? Hadn’t the Capitol eradicated them all? And suddenly images of Callie surfaced in his head, her grandiose ideas for a better government, her insistence that the Capitol was doing nothing for the poor…

He couldn’t lose the Blakes. Her fate could not be theirs.

“Bellamy,” he said, trying to remain calm in the tide of his rising panic. “Think about what you’re doing. What you’re _risking_. Don’t you want to keep your sister safe?”

“We go into the woods every day, Kane,” Bellamy said. “We could get caught out there. We could get caught in a rebellion. So we either starve to death in safety or risk our lives for something we care about.”

“There’s a difference between going into the woods and joining a rebel force that may or may not exist,” Marcus said, stepping closer to the boy, hoping increased proximity would help him see sense. “I understand there’s no love lost between you two and the Capitol, but-“

“Isn’t that what you’re doing with Abby?” Bellamy asked, and Marcus’ heart stopped.

“What?”

“Risking your life for something you care about,” Bellamy said.

He had words, he really did, but his brain had clamped his mouth shut and refused to let it open.

Bellamy had a point.

While Marcus wouldn’t have labeled himself a rebel – he hadn’t been actively working against the Capitol, he hadn’t been attempting to undermine them, to overthrow President Snow – he’d been allowing himself to fall completely in love with a woman who’d broken multiple laws, a woman who made no secret of her distaste for anything involving the government. Loving her, he realized, was his rebellion.

And fighting was the Blake’s.

“Falling in love with someone and joining a rebel force aren’t the same,” Marcus said, attempting to avoid confirming the validity of Bellamy’s argument. “If you two are caught…”

“We wouldn’t be,” Bellamy said. “We’ve lived most of our lives under the radar, Kane. I doubt if the Capitol knows we exist.”

Fighting conflicting emotions and clutching his tiny tree, Marcus said the only thing that made sense to say as he rested a hand on Bellamy’s shoulder.

“Stay safe,” he said with a watery smile, wondering if this would be the last conversation he shared with the boy he’d grown to love like his own son. He wondered what hand fate would deal them: the accidental rebel and the boy whose heart beat for rebellion. “Both of you.”

“You, too.”


	27. Secrets and Solutions

Marcus walked to Clarke’s house slowly, savoring every breath of the clean forest air and the twinkling stars that gleamed overhead. The thunderstorm seemed to have stopped while he spoke to Bellamy, leaving the district blanketed in humidity and a dense fog.

The Capitol had quite a few things the district lacked; adequate food supplies, advanced medical care, streets and streets of shopping, transportation. But the Capitol didn’t have either of those things – trees or stars – and the air tasted bitter, like tea without sugar. If he had to choose, he’d choose Twelve.

He held the Eden tree in both hands, periodically glancing down at it just to ensure it was safe. Thankfully, it had only suffered a few broken branches. His hands were coated with soil from Octavia’s outburst, and he realized the dirt had been wet as he’d gathered it into the pot. She must have watered the tree right before he walked in.

Marcus sighed, leveling his gaze on the houses ahead. The Blakes had every right to be angry. A promise had been made and not kept – something it seemed he did often, albeit unintentionally – and he wouldn’t blame them if they never spoke another word to him, but that didn’t mean he was okay with their rebellious plans. Bellamy and Octavia were teenagers. They didn’t know, or more likely, pretended not to care, about the consequences of getting caught. They’d created a ghost of an idea and now they followed it blindly, unaware of the dark path it was taking them down. Abby, he thought, would have to help them see sense. Then he remembered Abby was every bit as rebellious as those two kids, shook his head, gave a mirthless smile. She would probably join along with them, instead of convincing them to do otherwise.

The gate to the Victor’s Village was open, and Marcus pushed it ajar just enough for him to slide through as he lifted the tree above his head. It closed with a clang, and he made his way toward the only house with lights streaming down the empty block. Its number was 316 – Marcus doubted the district had 316 houses for victors, so the number must have been arbitrary – and despite the years of non-use, it looked relatively clean. He wondered if the Capitol had taken special precautions when it was built, utilized materials that would stand the test of time. These houses, he thought, would be here long after Twelve disintegrated into nothingness. 

As much as he knew he was welcome inside, he rang the doorbell out of instinct.

“Come in!” a voice, not Abby’s, yelled. _Clarke._

Despite the tragedy in which his evening had been steeped, hearing her voice brought a smile to his face. He’d always known she had an excellent chance to win. After all, she was Jake and Abby’s daughter; if anyone could win the Games on basis of parentage alone, it would have been her. But her determination was a beast of its own – it had not been entirely borne of her lineage – and he held her in high esteem for it.

Turning the knob, he let himself in.

“Kane!” Clarke exclaimed. She’d been waiting with her mother in the entryway – an entryway almost identical to Abby’s – and upon seeing him, gave him a brief but tight embrace. “I didn’t think you’d stop by tonight.”

He gave a tiny smile, suddenly overwhelmed by memories of the Blakes. Of how their meeting hadn’t even lasted fifteen minutes before Octavia stormed away and Bellamy began discussing rebellions. He set the Eden tree on the floor, making a mental note to pick it up later when he left.

“Well, I’m here,” he said awkwardly, and as he glanced over Clarke’s shoulder he glimpsed the frown on Abby’s face. She knew something had gone wrong, but now wasn’t the time to discuss it.

“I’m glad,” Clarke said. “My mom and I have been talking, and-“

Now it was Marcus’ turn to frown. Surely she hadn’t already involved her daughter in her escape plan? He was supposed to have 24 hours to figure out a solution that would keep Abby and Clarke out of the Capitol’s sights. Not that she’d ever listened to him, but…

“I won’t let you risk your life for me, Clarke,” he said, looking down into her sea-blue eyes, fighting a simmering anger that boiled when he wondered if Abby had arranged something without him, solved the problem without consulting him first. Couldn’t she wait for him, just once?

“Marcus, this isn’t what we talked about,” Abby interjected, stepping forward to place a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “This is something new. Something we both thought might be safer, as long as we don’t get caught.”

“Wasn’t that the caveat with the first plan?” Marcus asked, fixing the woman he loved with an exasperated glare. “It would be fine, unless we got caught? That’s not good enough, Abby. I need to know you’ll both be safe.”

Clarke rolled her eyes and gave an almost inaudible snort.

“We live in District 12, Kane,” she said. “That's never been a guarantee.”

He stared at her blankly, comprehending the truth behind her words. She was right. Of course she was right: District 12 was a land where Capitol comfort went to shrivel away and die. Nothing was guaranteed here, and even if he kept them out of whatever idea he managed to concoct, there was no guarantee they’d always be safe. Unless they were by his side, he couldn’t protect them. As long as the Capitol was in power, he couldn’t be sure they’d be safe.

Especially with Abby’s record, with Jake’s involvement in the rebellion...Marcus was surprised she hadn’t been taken to the Capitol for questioning at any point, but figured Thelonious must have vouched for her and insisted she and Clarke knew nothing about his role. Plus, that would’ve come dangerously close to revealing Jake’s death hadn’t been accidental, which was something the Capitol would never do. Keep the districts submissive and rebellion-free.

He realized he must have paused for longer than he intended, because Abby had begun staring at him with her trademark mixture of compassion and concern. Her eyes drifted to the tree on the floor.

“Are you okay?” she asked, moving forward to be even with him and Clarke. She must have already known the answer, he thought, because she rested her tiny hand on his forearm with sympathy in her chocolate eyes. If he was okay, the tree would’ve still been with Octavia.

“Fine,” he said. He knew his tone was unconvincing, but the identical expression of skepticism on Abby and Clarke’s faces nearly drew a laugh from him. They weren’t convinced.

Clarke turned away to retreat into her home, making her way toward what Marcus suspected was the kitchen (if the rest of the layout was the same as Abby’s). But her mother stayed, sliding her hand down his arm to take his, resting over his fingers on the surface of Bellamy’s bowl.

“I don’t believe you,” she said softly, a question within a statement. Holding her on the couch felt like a lifetime ago now, after everything that transpired between he and the Blake siblings, but he knew the only place he wanted to rest his head tonight was beside her, with her in his arms. They only had one more night after tonight, and he couldn’t stand the thought of wasting time in spending nights apart.

“We can talk about it later,” he said. “Right now, I need to hear this new idea of yours.”

She smiled.

“Have a little faith in me, Marcus,” she said, slowly withdrawing her hands from overtop of his. “I think you’ll be okay with this one.”

 _We’ll see,_ he thought as he followed her into her daughter’s new home. _We’ll see._

*** 

“You join the rebellion,” Clarke said as soon as he’d taken a seat at her polished kitchen table, unable to seal her words inside her lips any longer. “We talked to Becca, and she thought you’d be a great addition.”

Marcus frowned. He glanced at Abby, sitting directly across from him at the table, and his confused scowl deepened as she nodded.

“It’s the only solution besides running,” she added. 

“How?” he stuttered, a single syllable that opened a floodgate of inquiries, bursting a dam of confusion. “How would I do that? Where _is_ the rebellion? Are you two going to be –“

“Marcus, I joined the rebellion a week ago,” Abby said firmly, her pink mouth a thin line. “I was waiting for the right time to tell you, and then I thought maybe we could go to District 13 together-“

“District 13 _exists_?”

Abby sighed deeply, closing her eyes, and Clarke took over the conversation.

“We thought it might be possible for all of us to move to Thirteen, which is where the rebellion is based. With the Victory Tour coming, it won’t be,” Clarke said. “I have to stay here. But you could go tomorrow night, before the train arrives to take you to the Capitol.”

The room was spinning, orbiting around Abby and her daughter as if caught in their gravitational pull. Marcus swallowed hard to keep the minimal amount of stew he’d eaten from resurfacing. He looked at Abby, who seemed to have an apology in her gaze that, at least for now, he couldn’t quite accept. All this time, at the lake, when she came running through the door and embraced him, when she told him she loved him, when they made love earlier…why had she kept this a secret? Did she think he couldn’t be trusted to stay quiet about the rebellion? He owed it to Jake to do that.

She looked away, and his heart sunk.

“How long has Thirteen existed?” he asked quietly, fixated on her, wondering if his deep confusion was at all evident in his tone.

“It never went away,” Abby said. “It changed. They went underground.”

Marcus rubbed his beard with his hand, desperate for something to do, some physical sensation to draw him out of the numbness he felt. This changed everything. Everything he thought he knew, everything the Capitol thought it knew, and probably everything Bellamy thought he knew. How would Bellamy know of a rebellion there? Would Clarke have told him? Why?

“Granted, there are risks to this, too,” Clarke said, drawing his attention back to the present moment. “Once the Capitol finds out, they’ll come looking for you.”

All he could do was nod. Briefly, he found himself wondering if this had been Abby’s idea at all, or if it had come from Clarke. Not that it mattered.

“They wouldn’t be able to find you,” Abby added hurriedly, with a note of trepidation. “No one finds District 13 until it’s ready to be found. They’ve existed this long without being detected.”

“How do you know that?” Marcus asked. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I have to be!” she said, her voice nearly a yell, and Clarke turned to her, stunned by the outburst. Even Marcus flinched – it had been a while since she’d _yelled_ at him. “This is our only option, Marcus.”

She was begging. Not outwardly, of course – Abby Griffin was too magnificent a creature to drop to her knees and plead, to cry and wail and sob - but her eyes were windows to the storm churning inside her. As it raged he could see a thousand emotions, things words would never be able to convey. Regret. Fear. Hope. And, with a rush of warmth, love.

“I said I wouldn’t go into the woods,” he said, and Clarke gave her mom a look that clearly translated to _I-told-you-so_. "That there had to be another way."

Abby bit her lower lip as he spoke, and Clarke twisted a strand of blonde hair through her nimble fingers.

“But I need to know if this is safe,” he said. “The Capitol might not only come after me, you know. If they’re desperate for information, they could start harassing you, Raven, the Blakes…”

“We know,” Abby said softly. “That’s a risk we’re willing to take. For your safety.”

“Seriously, Kane,” Clarke added, with all the teenage exasperation he remembered from his own youth. “I don’t think you’re going to come up with anything better. Becca said she’s sending a pair of soldiers to pick you up tomorrow night at midnight.”

 _Tomorrow night._ His stomach dropped.

That meant tonight, the night he found out about her secret, was also the last night he’d spend with Abby. 

“I’ll do it,” he said, because he had to. Because there was no other way. Because Clarke was begging him with her blue gaze and Abby, his beautiful, perfect Abby, was too terrified of what’d come out of his mouth to look at him. “I’ll do it.”

Clarke cheered, Abby smiled, and Marcus did his best to appear ecstatic.

_I’ll do it, but I need some answers first._


	28. Promises

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked as soon as they were out of Clarke’s home. It had begun raining again, and with each step he took he became progressively more soaked. Abby offered him to stand under her umbrella, but he refused. It occurred to him that he might sound angry, upset, tense. He didn’t care. Did she not think this was something that mattered? Something she should have told him?

“Marcus, I didn’t-“ she started, her words drowning in a clap of thunder. She paused, waiting for the blast to finish. “I didn’t think it was important right now.”

Water began seeping into his clothes through his jacket, and he felt his hair plastering itself to his forehead. He gave an involuntary shiver, and she offered her umbrella yet again.

“It wasn't important?” he said, incredulous. “How long were you going to keep it a secret?”

She looked so small as she held the threadbare umbrella in both hands, clutching it as the wind blew water against her skin and matted her chestnut hair. There it was again – that division that overtook him at her daughter’s table – the thing in his chest that drew him closer to her as she stopped walking while the lightning flashed around her.

“I wasn’t,” she said, her voice oddly quiet. “Jake did that to us, and I don’t want you to feel how I felt.”

Marcus sensed she wasn’t done as he moved closer, barely outside the radius of her umbrella. Their proximity made him realize her eyes were shining with tears he’d passed off as raindrops, little dashes of saltwater mixed in with the ones from overhead.

“But I was figuring out how to keep you safe,” she said. “When Jaha told me you weren’t being reassigned, nothing else mattered. I wasn’t thinking about the rebellion. I was thinking about you and Clarke.”

Marcus shook his head.

“This plan…it might not work,” he said, feeling anxiety gnaw at the edges of his emotions. “And if it does, the Capitol will be relentless. They’ll come after you, Clarke, even Raven.”

“Becca said they’ll keep her safe,” she said. “She’s important to them, Marcus. They think she could be the key to taking down the Capitol.”

The gnawing grew more intense as he stared at her, soaking wet under an umbrella in the middle of a thunderstorm. Her blue denim jacket was nearly black, soaked completely through, and it hung like a dishcloth from her tiny frame. She was the storm, in that moment; sad and electric, her expression both regretful and ferocious.

“Do they know that?” Marcus asked, unconvinced. “Or is this false hope?”

“I trust them,” she said. “Jake and Becca were close. She wouldn’t lie to me about this. They need Clarke, and-”

He couldn’t take it anymore. The fear had conquered his carefully balanced tranquility and he froze, almost forgetting to breathe as the words erupted like a thunderclap of their own.

“Dammit, Abby!” he said, nearly shouting to be heard over the intensifying storm. Then it was her turn to go rigid, holding the umbrella at a perfect 90-degree angle as her hair and clothing dripped. “You have no idea what the Capitol would do if they found out,” Marcus continued. “There is no pardon for rebels. It’s execution by firing squad. Are you sure that’s what you and Clarke want? Because I couldn’t handle it if I was there and you were here and somehow - God knows how - they found out.”

She draped the umbrella over him, the absence of the rain making him cognizant of how wet and cold and achy he was. Her expression was soft, like the first sliver of blue sky after a downpour.

“You’re not going to lose me,” she said, throwing his words back at him through a shaky, soaked smile. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. If things hadn’t gotten so complicated with Jaha, I would’ve told you tonight.”

“Promise me,” he said, reaching forward to press the palm of his hand against the side of her face. They were both freezing and waterlogged, but she leaned into his touch as if his fingers were rays of sunlight. “Promise me that if something goes wrong, you’ll tell the people in Thirteen. Promise me you won’t sacrifice yourself.”

The thought of something happening to her – of her getting on a train and never coming home – was too much for him to bear. It caused an ache in his chest as if he’d broken his ribs, as if his heart had decided to stop working until the foul imagining evaporated. Life without her, without the sound of her laugh, without the glimmer in her eyes when she smiled, without the warmth in her gaze when she looked at him…a life without her wasn’t a life at all. It was at best an echo, a spectre, a hollow cavern of an existence out of which he’d never find his way. And he understood why she’d join the rebellion – Jake had apparently been a prominent member, and she wouldn’t let Clarke do this alone – but he wouldn’t allow the same fate to befall her that had befallen her husband.

He would not attend Abby Griffin’s funeral.

A trembling hand overlapped his own, and he was snapped back to reality by a flash of lighting and the contact of skin on skin.

“I promise,” she said. “I promise, Marcus.”

Then, with another thunderclap echoing across the district, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

This kiss was not related to the kiss they’d shared earlier that night, or the string of kisses he’d peppered against her skin as they coupled on the couch. This kiss was hungry, frantic, desperate with the knowledge that they had less than a day together, less than a day to hold each other and taste each other and memorize every inch of each other until District 13 separated them.

Because a separation, it seemed, was inevitable. Better the rebellion than the Capitol, but there wasn’t a path out of the woods that allowed them to stay together. And she must have known, because she dropped the umbrella into the gravel and let the winds carry it away, abandoning it to the wild so her hands were free to tangle in his hair as her lips whispered his name again and again like a prayer.

The whole thing was publicly intimate, he thought. The gates to the Victor’s Village were locked, as they always were, but any passersby unfortunate enough to venture outdoors at this hour would be treated to the sight of them lost in their passion, pressing their lips together over and over again, frantic to make up for what would certainly be months of no contact.

But for once, Peacekeeper Kane gave no thought to who might or might not have played witness to them as her little pink tongue darted between his lips, tracing along his and exploring his mouth as minuscule moans of pleasure reached his ears before dissipating into the stormy night.

Then a particularly loud clap of thunder startled them both into opening their eyes as Abby flinched in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered directly into her ear, holding her ever closer as she folded herself against him with a soft laugh. The laugh he remembered from years ago, the laugh he’d thought was only reserved for Jake, the laugh that sounded somehow sweeter than the expensive bakery cakes and gave him the satisfaction of reading a 400-page novel.

“I’m a little cold,” she murmured after a few minutes of silence, and then it was his turn to laugh. They’d been so caught up in each other that now, with the fire receded to a few sparks, they remembered how bedraggled and soaked they both were.

Well, he supposed he must look bedraggled. Abby, under any circumstance, would always be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Should we head home, then?” he asked, eyeing the house whose outdoor light flickered in the distance. “It’s a long walk, after all.”

She smiled.

“Come on, rebel Kane.”

“After you, Doctor Griffin.”

_Rebel Kane._

He could get used to the sound of that. 

***

They didn’t make it into the living room before Abby pulled him down into another urgent kiss, a contact only severed by the necessity of removing her boots.

“I’m still cold,” she murmured.

His eyes drifted to the couch, to the blanket that had no doubt become a wrinkled mess on the floor, but she shook her head with a radiant grin.

“No,” she said. 

_If not the couch, then what…?_

She untangled herself from him to begin climbing the stairs and for a moment he stared after her, unable to put the pieces together. They had slept together in her bed a multitude of times, but they hadn’t done anything there: whether that was because of Jake or because they were usually too exhausted by that hour, he wasn’t sure. 

Abby reached the top of the stairs before he started his ascent, giving him an exasperated eye-roll and a sigh.

“Shower, Marcus,” she said, resting a hand on her hip as water trailed from her hair and her sleeves and the hem of her jacket down onto the off-white carpeting.

He paused on the first step, giving her a small frown.

“Are you saying-“

She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it at him, hitting him in the face with a soft, wet _thwap_. He heard her laughing as he peeled the garment away, hanging it over the bannister so it would dry by morning.

“I don’t think that was necessary,” he muttered as he bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time as she moved out of his line of sight. When he reached the top the light was on in the second room on the right, the master bedroom with an adjoining bath.

He would’ve been lying, he realized, if he claimed he hadn’t thought about her the last time he’d stood behind that tall glass door with jets of hot water pouring down on him. That had been the day they first kissed, the day all the fragmented shards of his life glued themselves back together and suddenly, startlingly, made sense. He remembered the way she teased him after he came down the stairs. _I thought I was going to have to come up there and get you._

He nearly tripped over a pile of her clothes as he all but sprinted through the bedroom, but managed to smack his leg against one of the bedposts in his haste to reach the room that glowed with yellow light through the space between the carpet and the door.

“Damn,” he growled, hopping uncoordinatedly on one foot and gritting his teeth. The hiss of water running alerted him to the fact that Abby was probably already in the shower, waiting. _Of all the times not to watch where I’m going…_

He put his leg down to keep moving, but it wasn’t ready to bear his weight just yet. Giving an exasperated sigh he continued awkwardly hopping toward the bathroom, putting his other leg down for a second or two at a time to maintain balance.

Right as he was about to place his hand on the shiny brass doorknob, the water stopped running. He heard movement on the other side of the door, and seconds later it opened to reveal Abby Griffin, her skin saturated with droplets of water, wearing nothing but a towel.

Despite his predicament, he had to stare. There was no other option. No matter how many times he had her, no matter how many times they did this, he would never be able to conquer his sheer amazement at the sight of her beauty, at the swell of her creamy breasts barely concealed beneath the towel. Anything he’d imagined before, any brief fantasies that had drifted his way on lonely, rainy nights, were grains of sand compared to reality. To her.

She noticed his posture immediately and quirked an eyebrow.

“Are you okay?” she asked, and he nodded enthusiastically. Perhaps, he thought, too enthusiastically.

“Fine,” he said, standing up straight with a wince. She tilted her head to the side, smiling through her concern.

“Are you?” she asked, holding the towel with her left hand as she leaned against the doorframe. “Did something happen? I thought I heard something out here.”

He sighed. This, he thought, was something he might not live down if the sex afterward wasn’t _exceptional_.

“I tripped,” he admitted. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I hit my leg on the bedframe. It’s fine now, but-”

Just as he predicted, she nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Really, Marcus?” she gasped through giggles. “Didn’t you have to go through some training that taught you to be aware of your surroundings?”

“In my defense, I was a little distracted!” he retorted.

“Well, the shower might not be a great idea, then,” she said with a smirk. “With how easily _distracted_ you are, I don’t know if I can trust you not to fall over.”

He felt his lips quirk upward in a smirk of their own, stepping forward enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin. And suddenly the atmosphere changed, all humor evaporated. She gazed up at him, her pupils dilated from the darkness and lust simmering between them, a volcano moments before eruption.

“Is that a challenge?” he murmured, bending his head low to brush his lips against her pulse point. She smelled like flowers, like the first blooms of spring, and the scent alone was enough to make him dizzy.

“That depends,” she whispered as he kept kissing her, sliding a hand beneath the soft white towel to stroke her, finding the tiny bundle of nerves at her clit and pressing down. She gave a breathy gasp, already drenched for him, and he was straining against his pants. If there was more to her sentence, she didn’t bother finishing it.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and he supported her, the towel falling away as he carried her into the bathroom. He couldn’t stop pressing his lips to every inch of bare skin he could reach; her lips, her collarbone, her jawline, and he had no clue how but she tasted like strawberries, like the rich, sparkling fruits he’d only been able to eat at Capitol banquets and on holidays.

He set her down reluctantly, the zipper of his pants and dripping wetness of his clothes becoming apparent.

“Take it off,” she ordered breathlessly, her lips the red of a sunset. “Or I’m going to get started without you.”

“How romantic,” he muttered, aiming a bemused smile her way as he practically ripped his pants in his haste to get rid of them. “The last few times you’ve helped me with this.”

“Well, right now, you’re freezing,” she observed. 

He snorted, pulling off his jacket and shirt so he stood in his socks and underwear.

“Understood.”

Then the underwear and socks disappeared, too, and he stood completely naked before her.

Another thing he’d never acclimate to: the way she looked at him.

It wasn’t just the way her deep brown eyes drank him in, the way her gaze trailed down him like a waterfall. There was something else there – something he now knew was love, a love he’d never known before. A love that would keep them together when the Capitol and rebellion tried to pull them apart.

They stood there for a few seconds, both admiring each other with rosy cheeks and dilated pupils before Abby moved to turn on the water, opening the glass door and stepping inside. And this time, she didn’t have to tell him what to do.

Following her lead, he opened the clouded glass door to join her.

The first thing he felt was the tile, rigid and abrasive beneath his feet – with no small amount of relief, he realized they wouldn’t have to worry about losing their balance.

Next was the humidity, the sheer warmth, replacing the heat he’d lost to the rain and cold as jets of warm water poured down on him from above. And then, grabbing his arm to pull him close, pressing her lips against his with all the ferocity they’d left outside in the storm, _Abby_.

“Marcus,” she sighed as the shower hissed and rain continued to pound on the roof of the house. She trailed her tongue up the right side of his neck, giving him goosebumps as the warmth of her mouth collided and combined with the heat of the shower. Her hands moved lower as her kisses moved higher, and she began touching him, teasing him, drawing a moan from somewhere deep inside him when she stroked the inside of his thigh before taking the length of his rock-hard shaft in both hands.

Every time, he was astonished at how desperately he needed her. It didn’t matter how many times they did this, how many places, how many positions. Sometimes it was all he could do not to shove her up against the nearest flat surface and worship her, press his praises into every inch of her skin, make her scream his name over and over again until they both collapsed in a heap of boneless, pleasured exhaustion.

Noticing his reaction, she smirked up at him.

“Do you like that?” she murmured, the warm water and the sound of her voice stirring his already rock-hard cock into a frenzied, thrumming arousal.

“You know I do,” he responded as her fingers gave him a squeeze, and he closed his eyes as every centimeter of his body hummed in response.

Then she began kissing him again, her hands still working at his shaft, and the sensation of the water drumming on his back and her lips on his mouth and her fingers playing with the tip of his cock was almost too much for him to handle.

“Abby,” he groaned, “Abby, I can’t-“

Then she paused, withdrawing her hands, her mouth breaking free of his skin.

She looked at him with a mischievous glint in her eyes, wiping a few strands of wet hair away from her forehead. He could feel something inside him stir to life, something that registered the sultry grin on her face and nearly exploded with the need to kiss it off of her, to move inside her, to feel her walls around his aching cock, to get her to make those sounds she’d made that day at the lake and on the couch.

“Then get over here,” she said, slowly backing up toward the far wall of the shower, and the thing inside him roared.

He’d done this with Callie, years and years ago, but not like this. With her it had been raw, all impulse and gratification, losing themselves in sensations to drown out the hell that composed their lives. With Abby, it was different.

There was no selfish component to the way he buried his tongue between her lips as he pressed her against the wall and held the slippery smoothness of the back of her knee in his elbow, ensuring she’d be stable, ensuring she wouldn’t fall. It wasn’t about achieving a goal, getting to the end just to feel some muted sensation that indicated that yes, he was alive, he had a pulse, and the muted pleasure that thrummed through his body served as an affirmation.

He didn’t need sex to feel alive with her. Every cell in his body sang when she so much as looked at him, and when she said his name he caught fire. Their connection was built on a foundation of finding the thing they’d both been confident they’d never have again, the thing they gave up looking for and convinced themselves they no longer needed. Their foundation wasn’t built on forgetting: it was built on remembering.

Briefly, for a fraction of a second as he secured his other hand in her hair to keep her head from hitting the uncomfortable tile on the wall, he wondered how the hell he’d be able to look at her without feeling a desperate need to tear her clothes off and have his way with her. If she kept making those tiny moans, soft cries of pleasure as he gently nibbled at her neck, he didn’t think so.

“Marcus, _please_ ,” she whimpered, her words muted by the thrumming of water in his ears and the gentle, rhythmic pounding of water against his back. “I need you-” he bit down on her earlobe, and the rest of her words were lost to a loud moan. Hearing the noises she made only made his cock ache harder, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go.

But damn, it wasn’t often that he had the upper hand in _anything_ where Abby Griffin was concerned.

“You were saying?” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear.

It was clear this would be different than the lake, than the couch: they were both fatigued for each other, every point of contact lighting a separate match on their skin. They were both on fire under the water, and there was only one way to quench the flames.

So he slid smoothly into the space between her thighs, watching as her eyes flew open in astonished, immediate pleasure. He’d never tire of that, of the blissful effect he had on her, the way her lips drew together in an ‘O’ as he filled her once and withdrew almost all the way, the angle of entrance and friction enough to make him worry about passing out. Neither of them had considered one adjustment could change _everything_.

“God, Abby,” he panted as he plunged back inside her, suddenly aware of how tightly her fingers were woven into the dripping strands of hair at the nape of his neck, how unspeakably good it felt as she sucked at his pulse point with her searing, branding-iron mouth. Her hands traveled to his shoulders, her nails digging in as their mouths met in a sloppy, uncoordinated collision of tongues and teeth and hot water.

He could tell she was close from the pitch of her cries and the sensation of her warmth around his iron cock, pulling him in and her walls opening and closing around him combined with the heated friction of her skin on his…it was nearly enough to make him black out.

She needed more so he gave her more, he gave until he was inside her to the hilt, he gave himself completely in offering to this otherworldly goddess with water droplets dancing on her skin, refracting the dim light from above and casting tiny rainbows all over her body.

“Marcus!” she cried over and over again, and he could come just from this, just from the sound of her voice as she screamed his name and the pressure of her fingertips digging into his back hard enough to leave red marks in their wake. And she kept saying his name as her climax swept over her, as she tightened around him and stole all the breath from his lungs.

It’s a good thing, he thought for a flicker of a second as her raw, pleasured cries sent him over the edge, that District 12 didn’t have more victors.

It was a good thing they didn’t have neighbors.

 

***

It took them another half-hour just to get out of the shower, and even then they only managed to stumble the short distance to bed and pull back the sheets before collapsing in each other’s arms.

Abby would’ve happily spent the entire night under the pulsing jets of water with him, letting his hands explore every inch of her body as he took the bar of soap from the rusted rack on the wall and kneaded it into her skin with the gentleness of the storm’s raindrops.

And she’d washed him, too, taking that same bar of soap in her hands and running her fingers all over him, learning where he was most sensitive to touch (and tickling him, which led to a few minutes of all-out war). But their fingers began to prune and the water grew colder, the shower seemingly imploring them to take their intimacy elsewhere.

So they stumbled out of the glass enclosure, still drunk off each other, took a towel to the other person’s saturated skin, and tumbled into bed without bothering to put on pajamas.

Abby instinctively assumed her favorite position – snuggling into his left side, his arm wrapping protectively around her as she rested her head on his shoulder and fought to keep her eyelids from closing. There was a very real chance that this would be their last night together, and she wasn’t about to fall asleep. She could sleep, she figured, when he left.

There were, in theory, an unlimited amount of hours to which she could devote herself in sleep. But she only had – she looked at the clock with a sinking heart – about 18 hours left with the man she’d grown to accept as a part of herself, accepted his heartbeat as her own. Why waste any of them on something as trivial as sleep?

“You smell like strawberries,” she murmured, trailing her lips across his jawline, savoring the gentle scratching of his beard.

“I wonder why?” he said with an exhale of a laugh, stroking her upper arm. “Couldn’t be because we spent an hour in the shower, could it?”

“I don’t think so,” she smirked. 

His gaze trailed from her to the jacket he’d left in a heap on the floor, and she wondered what he was thinking about.

“You’re going to be well-respected in the rebellion,” she said instead, turning over to lay flat on top of his chest. He raised his eyebrows, moved his arms to rest on her lower back.

“Oh, really?” he asked with a dazed smile. “What makes you say that?”

As much as she loved him, she almost rolled her eyes. Either he was utterly exhausted, or all his years as a Peacekeeper had taught him nothing about how rebellions worked.

“You’re an ex-Peacekeeper,” she said. “They’ll count on you to tell them all the Capitol’s secrets. I’m assuming you know a few.”

The glimmer in his eyes tarnished, and her heart sank. _Should I not have mentioned the Capitol?_

She often forgot that there had been a time before Marcus and after Jake, a nebulous existence in which she floated from day to day, attaching herself to her work and her daughter to keep from drifting away in a sea of despair. But Marcus had had his own life then, too, a time period they hadn’t discussed and she hadn’t pressed him on.

There were scars on his back she hadn’t asked him about, and a mark at the crown of his forehead that she hadn’t brought up. Maybe, she thought, there was a reason those stories should remain in the past.

“I know a few,” he said, his voice oddly stilted. “Your friend Becca should be happy with me.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Abby said hurriedly, beginning to worry she’d burst the bubble of contentment in which they’d lived since the kiss in the rain.

“I don’t-“ he started, biting his lower lip, unable to hold eye contact with her. “The first decade of my career wasn’t just walking around districts, Abby. The Capitol made me do things I swore I’d never talk about again.”

“Then don’t,” she said firmly, unfazed by his vague confession. Whatever had happened, had happened. Her Marcus was not the Capitol’s Marcus, and he wasn’t the man who graduated from Peacekeeper Training and went off to…she could only imagine where.

Her Marcus was hers, and hers alone; neither the Capitol nor District 13 could lay claim to him.

“Vera would be proud of you,” she said, and he turned back to her again.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” she insisted. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, his hand stalling on her elbow.

“Are you sure?”

She felt an ache in her chest at the way he asked the question, the love and regret that saturated his words. 

“She told Jake and I all the time,” Abby said, lacing her fingers together with his underneath the off-white sheets and the quilted comforter. “She was so proud of you for passing the training. For getting such a great job. She loved you, Marcus. And nothing that happened could’ve changed that.”

He was quiet.

Abby noticed him swallow hard, and went back to leaning against him again and feeling their heartbeats synchronize.

“She’d be proud of the man you’ve become, too,” Abby said as his hand shifted, stroking the smooth skin and scars on her back.

“I miss her,” he said quietly, his sentence punctuated by the gentle tapping of rain against the window on the far wall.

“I miss her, too,” Abby said. “She was an amazing spirit.”

They were both quiet for a time, holding each other while the rain poured down from the heavens.

And then, suddenly, she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out, flowing forward like water past a broken dam.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,” she said, swallowing hard to compress the lump in her throat.

Marcus pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, and his touch filled her eyes with tears. Just the knowledge that he wouldn’t be there the next day, holding her in his arms and comforting her with kisses…she closed her eyes to prevent the tears from falling.

“We don’t have to think about that yet,” he whispered. “Let’s save it for the morning.”

Abby sniffled, her attempt to take a deep breath morphing into a nearly inaudible sob. And Marcus noticed. Because Marcus always noticed.

“Hey,” he said, removing one hand from her back to trail it through her hair. Her muscles relaxed at the contact, if only slightly. “We’ll figure it out. There’s always another way, right?”

She didn’t trust her words, so she just nodded.

“But I’m going to miss you, too,” he said, his words barely audible over the sound of raindrops on the roof. “Every minute of every day.”

“Becca might let you call me,” she said, as much for her own benefit as for his. “I don’t know how many phones they have, but I’m sure she’d make exceptions for you. They’re really excited about you, Marcus. Almost as excited as they were over Clarke.”

“Am I going to get to see her before I leave?” he asked, and Abby’s heart fluttered at the warmth in his tone. Some men would’ve used her daughter as a piece in the game to win her heart, but not Marcus. It was clear he truly cared for Clarke.

“She’ll be coming with us to meet the representatives from the rebellion,” Abby said. “And she’d be pretty mad at me if I kept you to myself all day tomorrow. I know she’s going to miss you, too.”

He smiled, his expression like the first breaking of sunlight through a patch of dark clouds. What would she do without his smile? How long could she stare at him to imprint it in her memory, to be certain she’d never forget it?

“All to yourself, huh?” he said, his eyes twinkling. “Well, maybe I don’t need to see Clarke after all...”

She gave him a playful slap on the shoulder and leaned down to give him another slow, deep kiss.

“What about the Blakes?” she asked after she pulled away, remembering she hadn’t asked how their meeting had gone. “And how did you end up with Vera’s tree?”

His face fell, the twinkle tarnished, and she regretted asking. Tonight, it seemed, her only _good_ idea had been the shower.

“They think they’re joining the rebellion,” he said cautiously, as if gauging her reaction. “And Octavia wasn’t too pleased with me. That tree was hers, until she knocked off a shelf.”

Abby flinched – that couldn’t have been an easy visit for Marcus to endure. Given his love for the Eden tree and both of those kids, Octavia might as well have knocked his heart off the shelf and shattered it.

“Bellamy understood, though,” he added. That didn’t surprise her; from what little she’d seen of him, he and Marcus were quite similar. They both fought viciously for the people they loved, they both cared more deeply for people than they’d admit, and now, they were both rebels.

And the rebellion was always looking for recruits, especially ones as young and eager as the Blakes. It would be no trouble, she informed him, to convince Becca to allow the sibling duo into District 13. They were orphans, after all. The only complication would occur if Octavia were reaped, but the next year was a Quarter Quell – there was no way to predict what hells the Capitol would unleash upon them then.

He was very quiet.

“You don’t agree with their decision,” Abby inferred after the explanation failed to lift his mood. “You’re worried about them.”

“Octavia just had a transfusion, and she’s more stitches than human at this point,” he said. “I’m not sure this was Bellamy’s decision, but he’d follow her wherever she goes. He feels responsible for her. If this turns into a war…” he trailed off, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh.

“She’s too young to be on the front lines,” Abby said, doing her best to assuage his worries. “Becca wouldn’t have them doing any fighting unless she was hard-pressed for soldiers.”

“How do you know she wouldn’t be?” he asked. “They’re just kids. This isn’t their fight.”

She remembered Clarke in the arena, the battles she’d fought to return home and to bring honor to her father’s memory. She remembered Octavia, how quickly she’d healed when it would’ve taken most patients at least a week to recover. She remembered Bellamy, the strength with which he protected her and loved her.

“They’re not kids anymore.”

They were both quiet for a moment, absorbing the impact of her words. She knew he must have understood – Bellamy and Octavia weren’t kids, not now, not after all they’d been through together.

“I know,” he said slowly, his words riding on a deep sigh. “But I need to protect them, Abby. The rebellion isn’t the right place for them to be.”

“Because Twelve’s better?” Abby questioned. “Thirteen would treat them well, Marcus.”

He didn’t respond, tracing patterns over the skin and scars on her back. There were a thousand things she needed to say, things that weren’t related to the Blakes or District 13, things that weren’t interwoven into the web of conflict that encompassed their every waking moment. _I love you. I need you. Please stay safe._

“We don’t pick the best subjects for pillow talk,” he muttered and she smiled, shaken from her reverie. It almost sounded like the beginning of one of Raven’s jokes: _so a Peackeeper and a doctor are in bed together…_

“Well, there wasn’t much talking in the shower.”

“Are we sleeping tonight?” he asked, smiling at her reference. Abby raised her shoulders in a small shrug – she had her opinions, but she wasn’t the one leaving the district tomorrow.

“That’s up to you,” she said, leaning her chin on his chest.

He sighed, ran a hand through his mussed hair.

“A few hours,” he said. “I’d rather not say goodbye to everyone tomorrow after a sleepless night, if that’s okay.”

Abby tried to hide the disappointment flushing its way through her system by tilting her head, hoping he couldn’t hear the despair in her voice. If they went to sleep, she couldn’t keep talking to him. She couldn’t keep looking at him, couldn’t hear the leather-smooth sound of his voice and contrast it with the scratchiness of his beard.

But she'd never say that.

“Of course it’s okay,” she said. “You have a big day tomorrow.”

“We,” he corrected her. “We have a big day tomorrow.”


End file.
